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Illustrated Magazine 

For Young Folks 



Part I., November, 1882, to May, 1883. 


Copyright, 1883, by The Century Co. 

Press of Theo. L. De Vinne & Co 
New- York. 

library, Univ. rf 
North Or^-" 




Six Months — November, 1882, to May, 1883. 



Accident in High Life. An Verses. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Eleanor A. Hunter 128 

Adventures of a Tame Crow. Picture, drawn by DeCost Smith 412 

Agassiz Association. The (Illustrated) Harlan H. Ballard 77 

=37, 3'7, 397, 477 

Albatross. The Poem. (Illustrated) Celia Tliaxter 279 

"A Little Girl Asked Some Kittens to Tea." Jingle. (Illustrated by the 

Author) /. G. Francis 91 

All the Plums. (Illustrated by W. T. Smedley) Sophie Swett 34 

Alone in Rome. (Illustrated by Walter Fenn) J.ucretia P. Hale 457 

Alphabet of Children. An Jingles. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) . . ..Isabel Frances Bellows 112 

"An Artiz II Be." Jingle. (Illustrated by Boz) M. J. S. . 135 

"And Everywhere That Mary Went." Picture, drawn by M. L. D. Watson 384 

An Object of Interest. Picture, drawn by Elise Bohm 430 

Any Train Sarah Winter Kellogg. . . 381 

Art and Artists. Stories of (Illustrated) Clara Erskine Clement . . , 268 

April Day. An Picture, drawn by Otto Stark 456 

Ballad of Bravery. A Verses '. Malcolm Douglas 229 

Banished King. The (Illustrated by E. B. Bensell) Frank R. Stockton 11S 

Beautiful Lady. The Poem Henry Ripley Dorr 423 

Ben Bruin. Verses. (Illustrated by W. L. Sheppard) Lucy Larcom 328 

Bob's Wonderful Bicycle. Verses. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) E. J, Wheeler 424 

Boy in the White House. A (Illustrated from photographs) Noah Brooks 57 

Brave Chinese Baby. A (Illustrated by H. Sandham) //.//. 406 

Broken Pitcher. The (Illustrated) Mrs. J. W. Davis 323 

Brownies' Feast. The Verses. ( Illustrated by the Author) Palmer Cox 368 

Brownies' Ride. The Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) Palmer Cox 263 

Buttons Mary N. Prescott 469 

Cat and the Mouse. Pictures, drawn by Palmer Cox 56 

Changing A Face. (Illustrated) A. A. W 94 

Chinese New Year's Day in Santa Barbara. (Illustrated by H. Sandham).//. // 201 

CHIVALRIE. Poem. (Illustrated by Miss C. A. Northam) Wilbur Larremore 256 

Christmas Day. Poem. (Illustrated) A'ora Perry 92 

Christmas Fairies. The M. E. K 82 

Christmas Moon. Poem S. H. S 206 

Coasting on Lake Winnipeg. (Illustrated by H. F. Farny) Edmund A. Strulhers 102 

Confusion. Verses. (Illustrated by Rose Midler) : M. M. D 109 

O Dick, the Draughtsman. Jingle. (Illustrated by the Author) L. Hopkins 224 

"■* Discovery of the Mammoth. The (Illustrated by Tames C. Beard, from ) 

d , . , , } C. F. Holder 89 

qo a photograph) ^ 

""" Doris Lee's Feather Fan Frank H. Converse 276 



Dorothy's Spinning-wheel Wary L. Belles Branch. . . . 349 

Doughty Duelist. A Jingle. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins) H Pelham Curtis 23 

Drop and the Cloud. The Poem L. D. Brewster 447 

Elizabeth Butler. (Illustrated) Alice Meynell 1S5 

Emily. (Illustrated by the Author) Mary E. Church 362 

Fairy Wishes, Nowadays. (Illustrated by A. B. Frost) S. A. Sheilds 166 

False Sir Santa Claus. The Christmas Masque E. S. Brooks 65 

Family Drive. A Jingle. ( Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Stephen Smith 83 

Field of the Cloth of Gold. Story of the (Illustrated by R. B. Birch 

and others) E. S. Brooks 136 


Flying Without Wings. (Illustrated by James C. Beard) . C. F. Holder 432 

Grace for a Child. Verse. (Illustrated and engrossed by A. E. Burton). . .Robert Heirick 11 

Grandmamma's Pearls. (Illustrated) Louisa M. Alcoll 144 

GRETCHEN. Poem. (Illustrated) : • Celia Thaxter 343 

Happy Thought. A Katharine R. McDowell . . 29 

Hetty's Letter. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) .Katharine Kameron 1S0 

His Seventieth Christmas. Picture, drawn by G. F. Barnes ... 144 

Hotel Poem Laura F. Hinsdale 18 

How the Doctor was Paid . Katharine R. McDowell. 163 

" I know I have Lost my Train." Jingle. (Illustrated by L. Hopkins, 

after design by Author) 

Indian Game. A New (Illustrated by the Author) , .De Cost Smith 390 

In the Land of Clouds. (Illustrated by J. W. Bolles) Joaquin Miller . . . 24 

"I Once Saw Three Funny Old Fellows." Jingle. (Illustrated by L. 

Hopkins, after design by Author) 

Ironing Song. Verses. (Illustrated by M. L. D. Watson) Bessie Hill . 364 

Is n't it about Time to Get out of the Way. Picture, drawn by Walter Bobbett 194 

January and June. Verses. (Illustrated by Jessie McDermott) Margaret Johnson 172 

Japan. The Whale Hunters of (Illustrations from Japanese pictures) William Elliot Grij/is 109 

Japanese Funny Artist. A (Illustrated) William Elliot Griffis 340 

Jeremy Barge and Timothy Wall. Jingles. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch). Joseph Dawson 2S0 

Jerry. Poem. (Illustrated by Rosina Emmet) . Mary Lowe Dickinson 275 

Jingles 23, 55, S3, 91, 95, 135, 205, 224, 2S0. 303, 327, 455, 461, 463 

Jingling Rhyme of the Bold Rower. The Verses. (Illustrated by G. 

F. Barnes) Emily S. Oakey 208 

Karsing and the Tiger. (Illustrated) Hollis C. Clark 230 

Kitty's Prayers. Verses. (Illustrated by H. P. Share) Corinne Oaksmilh 339 

Lake Winnipeg. Coasting on (Illustrated by H. F. Farny) Edmund A. Strnthers .... 102 

Land of Clouds. In the (Illustrated by J. \V. Bolles) Joaquin Miller 248 

Learned Lawyer. A Jingle. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) J. E. A T ewkirk 327 

Little Beppo Malcolm Douglas 127 

Little Missionary. The Poem. (Illustrated by Rosina Emmet) Charles H. Crandall ... 296 

Louis's Little Joke Katharine R. McDowell . . . 404 

Mamma's Little Housemaid. Picture, drawn by D. Clinton Peters 212 

Mammoth. The Discovery of the (Illustrated by James C. Beard, f r mi aj 

A. W. Harrington 55 

\ A. IV. Harrington 303 

photograph) $ ' ' ' " 

Mary and her Garden. Poem. (Engrossed and illustrated by A. Brennan | Eva L. Ogden 96 

M.ASSYS. Quintin Clara Erskine Clement ... 271 

Mission of Mabel's Valentine. The (Illustrated by Rose Midler) Anna North 293 

Mrs. Peterkin Faints on the Great Pyramid Lucrelia P. Hale 365 

My Valentine. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) J. M. Anderson 252 

New Hat. The Jingle. (Illustrated by the Author) E. L. Sylvester 94 

New Mother Hubbard. A Verses. (Illustrated by Rose Midler) Eleanor A. Hunter 448 

New Winter Sport. A (Illustrated by W. Taber) Hjalmar H. Boyesen 304 

New Year's Day in Santa Barbara. Chinese (Illustrated by H. Sandham) //. // 201 

Nightmare of the Boy who Teased the Animals. The Picture, drawn by Culmer Barnes 380 



Old Mordecai's Cockerel. (Illustrated by F. T. Merrill) Sargent Flint 19 

Old Roman Library. An (Illustrated by F. H. Lungren) C. L. G. Scales 30 

Paper Boat. A (Illustrated by the Author) Be Cost Smith 464 

Peterkin Faints on the Great Pyramid. Mrs Lucretia P. Hale 365 

Pictures 12,33,56,144,165,180,194,212,247,311,380,384,412 

Poor Katie Mary Wager Fisher. .... 430 

Princess with the Glass Heart. The (Illustrated by Marie Wiegmann.) 

Translated by Anna Eichberg 427 

Priscilla Prue's Umbrella George Addorus 266 

Puck's Pranks. A Play Mary Cowden Clarke 297 

Pups. Picture. (After a painting by J. G. Brown) 33 

PUSSY Willow. Verses. (Illustrated by Wilhelmina Grant) Ella Gardner 275 

Queen's Gift. The Poem. (Illustrated by G. F. Barnes) Rose Hartwick Thorpe. , 24 

Queen who could n't bake Gingerbread, and the King who could } 

n't play on the Trombone. The (Illustrated by Marie Wiegmann. ) > 

Translated by ) Anna Eichberg 360 

Queer Valentine. A Sophie Swett 243 

QUERY. A Jingle. (Illustrated by the Author) Kate B. Sears 455 

QUEST. The Poem. (Engrossed and illustrated by A. Brennan) Eva L. Odgen 40 

Rhyme for Boy. A Verse. (Illustrated by the Author) Lilian Coggeshall .... 461 

Rhyme of the Week. A Jingle. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) William Wye Smith 352 

Roman Library. An Old ( Illustrated by F. II. Lungren) C. L. G. Scales 30 

Roman Sunday-School. A Picture, from the painting by Elizabeth Thompson. 311 

RUBENS. Peter Paul (Illustrated) Clara Erskine Clement 271 

Sad Disappointment. A Verses Kate Kellogg 151 

Sad Little Prince. The (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Edgar Fawcett 438 

Santa Claus Must Have Made a Mistake. Picture, drawn by Addie Ledyard 165 

Shadow Pictures and Silhouettes. (Illustrated^ Joel Stacy .'. 385 

She Does n't Seem to Know that She 's Me. Picture, drawn by Mrs. Mary Wyman Wallace 12 

Silk-Culture for Boys and Girls. (Illustrated) L. Capsadell. 225 

" Sing, Sing ! what shall we Sing ? " Picture, drawn by J. G. Francis 463 

Snow-flake China. (Illustrated) Mrs. Julia P. Ballard . . . 206 

"Soul, Soul, for a Soul-Cake!" (Illustrated by R. Blum) J. L. IV. 93 

Sphinx. The Verses. (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Anna S. Reed. 333 

Stories of Art and Artists. (Illustrated) Clara Erskine Clement 268 

Story of Mrs. Polly Ann Bunce's Best Cap. The A. G. Plympton 436 

Story of the Field of the Cloth of Gold. The (Illustrated by R. B. 

Birch and others) E. S. Brooks 136 

"73. 2 53- 333 

Story of Viteau. The (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) . . .Frank R. Stockton 1 

84, 212, 284, 371, 412 

Summons. The Poem . . . .' Avis Grey 403 

Tale of the Supposing Family. The Elizabeth Cumings. . .. ... 280 

That Sly Old Woodchuck William O. Stoddard . . 330 

Thompson. Elizabeth (Illustrated). Alice Mcynell 185 

Times and Seasons. Poem W. J. Linton 10 

Tinkham Brothers' Tide-Mill. The (Illustrated by J. H. Cocks) J. T. Trowbridge 4S 

129, 194, 257, 352, 449 

To-day my Doll is One Year Old. Jingle 205 

"Torpedoes — Don't Anchor!" (Illustrated by J. B. Woodward, from in- 
stantaneous photographs) ' Charles Barnard. 12 

Town with a Saint. A Charles Barnard. 338 

Two Sides of a Laugh. Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) H. Winthrop Peirce 381 

Valentine. A Queer '. Sophie Swett 243 

Valentine. My Verses. (Illustrated by the Author) J. M. Anderson. 252 

Valentine. The Mission of Mabel's (Illustrated by Rose Miiller) Anna North 293 

Van Eyck. Hubert Clara Erskine Clement . 268 



Van Eyck. Jan Clara Rrskine Clement, . . . . 270 

VlTEAU. The Story of (Illustrated by R. B. Birch) Frank R. Stockton 1 

84, 212, 2S4, 371, 412 

Whale-Hunters of Japan. The (Illustrations from Japanese pictures) William Elliot Griffis. ... 109 

When Mamma was a Little Girl. Picture, drawn by W. T. Peters 247 

When Santa Claus was Young. Picture, drawn by D. Clinton Peters 180 

Where Was Villiers ? (Illustrated by W. H. Overend). Archibald Forbes 344 

White House. A Boy in the (Illustrated from photographs) Noak Brooks 57 

Whoop-ee ! How I Frightened the Bears. (Illustrated by the Author). .£. W. Kemble 462 

Winter Song. A Poem Susan Hartley 81 

WOODCHUCK. That Sly Old William O. Stoddard. .... 330 

Work and Play for Young Folk. (Illustrated) 225, 304, 385, 390, 464 

Silk-Culture for Boys and Girls . . L. Capsadell 225 

A New Winter Sport Hjalmar H. Boyesen 304 

Shadow Pictures and Silhouettes Joel Stacy 385 

A New Indian Game De Cost Smith 390 

A Paper Boat De Cost Smith 464 

Wrong Coat. The Rose Terry Cooke 324 


Jack-in-the-Pulpit (Illustrated). 

Introduction — A Young Society — Forced to Move — Diving at the Flash — "For the Inquisitive" — A 
Talking Canary — Another Answer — Animal-Flowers (illustrated), 74; Introduction — How Times 
Have Changed! — More About the Durion — Do Answer this Fellow (illustrated) — The Jabberwocky, 
154; Introduction — "Down in the Doldrums" — Which was Right (illustrated)? — The Emu at Home, 
234; Introduction — Bombast — The Rabbit Identified — Walking Under Water — " Old Wildey " — A Frog 
Duel (illustrated) — The "Jabberwocky" once more, 314; Introduction — A Self-winding Clock — A 
Sporting Hare — The Stinging-tree — "Pretty is as Pretty Does" — Another Fellow who Wants to be 
Answered (illustrated) -Two Youthful Compositions — A March Custom in Wales, 394; Introduction — 
Moths and Falling Water — Jack's Little Parable — That Cloudy Saturday — A Girl who never saw a Snow- 
ball — The Deacon's Letter — The Wasp's Gymnastics — A Remarkable Lily (illustrated), 470. 

For Very Little Folk (Illustrated). 

The Story of Rob, 73 — The Snow-bird's Christmas Tree, 152 — The Sled that Won the Golden Ai row, 232 — 
¥"ap, Puss, and the Slipper; "Oh, Birds that Fly in the Summer," 312 — The Grateful Dog, 391 — Mr. 
Turkey-cock, 472. 


The False Sir Santa Claus E. S. Brooks 65 

Puck's Pranks ; or, Good for Evil Mary Cowden Clarke 297 

Our Music Page. 

Christmas Carol. (Rev. Minot J. Savage) ' Hmvard M. Dow 142 

The Letter-box (Illustrated) 76, 156, 236, 316, 396, 474 

The Riddle-box (Illustrated) 79, 159, 239, 319, 399, 479 


" Indian Summer," facing Title-page of Volume — "On Christmas Day in the Morning," 81 — "His Lord- 
ship's Bed-time," 163 — "Margery's Champion," 241 — "The Broken Pitcher," 323 — "Snow in Spring- 
time," 403. 


Vol. X. 

NOVEMBER, 1882. 

No. 1. 

[Copyright, 1SS2, by The CENTURY CO.] 

By Frank R. Stockton. 

Chapter I. 

By the side of a small stream, which ran through 
one of the most picturesque portions of the prov- 
ince of Burgundy, in France, there sat, on a beau- 
tiful day in early summer, two boys, who were 

They had been bathing in the stream, and now, 
having dressed, they were talking together on the 

Raymond, the elder, was about fourteen years 
old, and his brother Louis was some eighteen 
months younger. In form and feature, and in 
general disposition and character, they were not 
unlike many of the boys of our day, and yet these 
two young fellows lived more than six hundred 
years ago. They were dressed in simple tunics, 
one green, one brown, and wore short breeches, 
dark-colored stockings, and rather clumsy shoes. 

The two brothers were very busily engaged in 
conversation, for they had a great deal to say to 
each other, and not much time to say it in. On 
the next day Louis was going away from home, to 
be gone a long, long time. 

Raymond and Louis were the sons of the Count- 
ess of Viteau, whose chateau stood on a little 
eminence about half a mile away. Their father, 
the Count of Viteau, had been one of the most 
steadfast adherents and supporters of the Duke of 
Burgundy, in his endeavors to maintain the inde- 
pendence of his dukedom against the claims of 
the French crown, and had fallen in one of the 
battles between the Duke's followers and the army 

VOL. X. 1. * Copyright, 1882, 

of the Regent, Queen Blanche, who, in those days, 
ruled France in the name of her son, the young 
King, Louis IX., afterward known as Louis the 
Just, or St. Louis. 

The Duke's forces had been defeated, Burgundy 
had been compelled to acknowledge the supremacy 
of the French crown, and peace reigned in the 

The widowed Countess of Viteau now found her- 
self the sole protector and guardian of her two 
boys. Fortunately, she had a large estate, but 
even this added to her cares and responsibilities, 
and rendered her less able to attend to what she 
had intended should lie the aim and business of 
her life — the education of her sons. 

Education, in those days, did not mean what it 
does now. The majority of the people, even of 
the upper classes, were not educated at all, some 
of the lords and barons being unable to write their 
names. Printing had not been invented ; all books 
were in manuscript, and were scarce and valuable. 
Most of the learning, such as it was, had been, for a 
long time, confined to the monks and priests ; but, 
in the era in which our two boys lived, people had 
begun to give more attention to general education, 
and there were schools in some of the large cities 
which were well attended, and where the students 
of that day were taught grammar, logic, rhetoric, 
music, arithmetic, geometry, and astronomy, al- 
though their studies in most of these branches were 
not carried very far. The school of Paris was one 
of the most celebrated of these institutions. 

The Countess of Viteau was among the few ladies 

by F. R. Stockton. 



of the time who really cared for an education beyond 
that which included the small number of accom- 
plishments then considered necessary to persons 
of high position. When quite a young woman, 
she had learned all that the priests, one or more 
of whom generally lived in her father's house, 
could teach her, and afterward, when her sons 
were old enough, she made it her personal business 
to attend to their studies. Some things she taught 
them herself, and, for other branches, she em- 
ployed such men of knowledge — almost always 
members of some order of the clergy — as could be 

But now the time had arrived when the customs 
of the day demanded that one of her sons, at 
least, should leave her to receive an education of 
another sort, and her younger boy was to be sent 
away to the castle of the Count de Barran, an old 
friend and fellow-soldier of her husband, to be 
taught, as most of the boys of his station were 
taught, the arts and usages of knighthood and 
chivalry. Raymond would also be a knight, but 
his mother wished him to be more than that. He 
would succeed to the rank and estate of his father, 
and she hoped that he would not only be a noble- 
man and a soldier, but a scholar. When he should 
leave her to go to the school at Paris, — and it was 
for this school that she was now endeavoring to 
prepare him, — he would live with one of his rela- 
tives, by whom he would be instructed in the noble 
duties of chivalry. His mother felt sure that his 
studies at the school and his knightly exercises 
would not interfere with each other. 

"Only one more day," said Raymond, "and 
then it will seem so strange here without you, 

"But it will be ever so much stranger for me," 
said Louis, "fur I shall be without everybody. I 
have never seen a single soul of the castle people, 
excepting the Count de Barran, and it is so long 
since he was here that I have almost forgotten 
him. He was a big, stout man, and that 's all I 
know about him." 

" You might as well have never seen him," said 
Raymond, " for he is not stout, and he is not big. 
He 's a tall, thin man, and, I think, a kind one. 
But I expect you soon will know everybody." 

"Or they will know me," said Louis, "which 
will be the same thing. I know I shall have lively 
times. Let me see : For a year and a half I shall 
be a page. There must be ever so many ways for 
the pages, especially if there are a good many of 
us, to have royal fun. And then, when I am four- 
teen, I shall be a squire. I think I shall not like 
that so much, excepting for the fighting part." 

" Fighting ! " exclaimed his brother. " You '11 
have none of that." 

"Oh yes, but I shall have," returned Louis. 
" Barran has always been fighting, ever since I 
heard of him ; and if he does his duty by me, he 
is bound to take me with him to the wars." 

" But the wars are all over," said Raymond. 
" You know that as well as I do." 

"Oh, there'll be more," said Louis, laughing. 
" There is sure to be trouble of some kind before 
I 'm fourteen. And, if there are any wars, you 
must come to them. It wont do to be spending 
all your time here, with priests and books." 

"Priests and books!" exclaimed Raymond. 
" I don't expect to spend half my time with them. 
I shall ride and fence, and tilt and hunt quite as 
much as you will, or even more, I doubt not. But 
I can do all that, and be a scholar too. " 

"I 'cl like well enough to be a scholar," said Louis, 
" if it were not so much trouble. Just to learn to 
write, like the monks who make our books, must 
take years ! I tell you, Raymond, it would be time 
wasted for me." 

" No doubt of that," said his brother, laughing. 
" You would never have the patience to write out 
all the pages of a book, even if you could do it so 
well that people could read it. If you can do so 
much as write me a letter from the castle, to tell 
me how you find things there, and what happens 
to you, I shall be glad enough." 

" I never did write a letter," said Louis, "but I 
feel quite sure that I could do it. The trouble 
would be for you to read it." 

"That's true," said Raymond; "but I will do 
my best to read, if you will do your best to write." 

" Did not our mother tell you to ask me this ? " 
said Louis, turning toward his brother with a smile. 

" She did," answered Raymond. 

"I thought it sounded like her," said Louis. 
" She greatly wants me to read and write ; and, 
for her sake, and yours, too, Raymond, I '11 try a 
letter. But is not that Bernard, over in the 

" Yes, it is," said Raymond. " He is training a 
young falcon for me." 

" For you ! " cried Louis, jumping up. " I did 
not know that. Let us go down to him. " 

" I did not know it, either," said his brother, 
rising, "until yesterday. Bernard is going to 
teach me to fly the bird as soon as it is trained." 

"And I am going away to-morrow-," cried Louis. 
" It is too bad !" 

The boys now ran down to the field, where a 
tall, broad-shouldered man, dressed in a short, 
coarse jacket of brown cloth, with tight breeches 
of the same stuff, was walking toward them. He 
bore on his left hand a large falcon, or goshawk, 
a bird used in that day for hunting game of various 


" Ho, Bernard ! " cried Louis, " how is it I never 
heard that you were training that bird ? I should 
have liked to watch you all the time." 

" That is the reason you were not told," said 
Bernard, who had been the squire of the late 
Count, and was now a well-trusted member of the 
household of Viteau. 

" If you had known what I was about," he 
continued, "you would have done nothing but 
watch me, and therefore it was that your good 
mother told me to keep the matter from you. It 
takes a long time and a world of trouble to train 
a hawk, especially one that was nearly full-grown 
when caught, as this one was. Those taken from 
their nests are far easier to manage." 

" But he is trained now, is n't he ? " said Louis. 
" Why not try him to-day ? Just one flight, good 
Bernard, for, you know, I shall be gone to-morrow. 
We can easily find a heron, or a pheasant, or 
something he can go after." 

" No, no, my boy," said the squire; " this bird 
is not yet ready to cast off for a free flight. Why, 
it was only last week that I ceased using the long 
string with which I brought him back when I 
wanted him ; and, ever since, I have been very 
careful to have a lure which should be so tempting 
that he would be certain to come down to it, no 
matter how high he might soar. See, here is the 
one I used to-day. He has eaten from it the whole 
breast of a pigeon." 

With this he showed the boys his " lure," which 
was a rude figure of a bird, the body made of 
cloth, with the head, talons, and wings of a real 
bird, and to which had been attached a piece of 
some kind of meat of which the falcon is fond. 
By being thus accustomed to find something good 
to tear and eat when called to his master, the bird 
gradually learned to obey the call whenever he 
heard it. 

Raymond was quite willing to wait until the 
hawk was thoroughly trained, before testing him 
in actual sport ; but Louis, very naturally, made 
great complaint. To-day was his last chance. 
Bernard, however, was firm, and so they walked 
toward the chateau, the hooded bird still perched 
upon the squire's wrist. 

Just as the three, now busily talking of Louis' 
future life at the castle of the Count de Barran, 
were about entering a little gate in the lower part 
of the grounds which surrounded the house, there 
came out of the gate a monk wearing a long, 
dark, and rather dirty gown, and walking with his 
eyes fixed upon the ground, as if deeply engaged 
in thought. He seemed scarcely to perceive the 
boys or the squire, as he passed them. 

" I shall be glad to be free from those long- 
gowned folk," said Louis, as they entered the 

grounds. " No more priests' lessons for me. I 
shall have knights and soldiers for my teachers." 

"All very fine," said Bernard, "but you will 
have other things to do besides learning how 
to be a knight and soldier. You will serve your 
masters and your mistresses at table, clean armor, 
hold stirrups, and do everything they ask of you." 

" Oh yes," said Louis ; " but that will be only 
while I am a page. In a year and a half all that 
will be over." 

" A year and a half seems to me like a long 
time," said Raymond; "but time always passes 
quickly with Louis." 

This remark was made to Bernard, but the 
squire did not appear to hear it. He was look- 
ing back through the gate at the departing monk. 

" If I only knew that he was never coming back," 
he said to himself, " I would not much care what 
else happened." 

And then he followed the boys up to the 

Chapter II. 

The good squire did not make his inhospitable 
remark in regard to the monk because he had any 
dislike for monks or priests in general. He had 
as high an opinion of the members of the clergy as 
any one, but he had a very strong dislike for this 
particular prior. To understand his reasons for 
this feeling, we must know that, not very long 
before the period at which our story begins, and 
soon after the Queen Regent had conquered the 
rebellious provinces, and so consolidated the king- 
dom, there was established in the city of Toulouse 
that terrible tribunal of the Romish Church 
known as the Holy Inquisition. Here persons 
suspected of holding opinions in opposition to the 
doctrines taught by the Church were tried, often 
subjected to tortures in order to induce them to 
confess the crimes with which they were charged, 
and punished with great severity if found guilty. 
This inquisition was under the charge of the 
Dominican friars, of which order the man who 
had just passed out of the little gate was a member. 

For several weeks the frequent visits of this prior 
to the Countess of Viteau had given a great deal 
of uneasiness to Bernard. The man was not one 
of the regular religious instructors of the family, 
nor had he anything to do with the education 
of the boys. There was some particular reason 
for his visits to the chateau, and of this the house- 
hold at large knew nothing ; but the fact of his 
being a Dominican, and therefore connected with 
the Inquisition, made him an unpleasant visitor to 
those who saw his comings and goings, but who 
did not know their object. 



Squire Bernard thought that he knew why this 
Brother Anselmo came so often to the chateau, 
but he could not be certain that he was right. So 
he kept his ideas to himself, and did 
no more than hope that each visit of 
the friar might be the last. 

When the two brothers entered the 
chateau, they went directly to their 
mother's apartments. They found her 
in a large room, the floor of which 
was covered with soft rushes, for there 
were no carpets in those days. There 
was an abundance of furniture, but it 
was stiff and heavy, and on the walls 
there hung various pieces of tapestry, 
of silk or wool, most of which the good 
lady had embroidered herself. 

The Countess of Viteau was a wom- 
an of about thirty-five years of age, 
and of a sweet but dignified appear- 
ance and demeanor. She was evidently 
very fond of her children, and they 
were equally fond of her. She had a 
book in her hand when the boys en- 
tered (it should be remembered that 
she was one of the very few ladies of 
that day who read books), but she laid 
it down, and drew her sons to her, one 
on each side. 

" Mother," said Louis, as she leaned 
over to kiss the young fellow who was 
to leave her the next day for such a 
long, long time, — "Mother, I wish 
you would write a letter to the Count 
de Barran, and ask him to have me 
taught falconry as soon as possible, 
and also to get me a hawk of my 
own, and have him trained." 

"What put that into your head ?" 
asked his mother, who could not help 
smiling at this absurd idea on the part 
of a boy who was going to begin life as a page, 
but who expected to enter at once into the sports 
and diversions of the grown-up nobility. 

"It was Raymond's falcon that made me think 
of it," said Louis. " I suppose I shall not see that 
bird fly, — at least, not for ever so long, — and so I 
want one of my own." 

"I did not intend you should know anything 
about Raymond's falcon," said his mother, "'for I 
knew it would fill your head so full that there would 
be no room for anything else. But we will not 
talk of falcons now. I have a great deal to say to 
my little boy " 

" Not so very little either," said Louis, drawing 
himself up to his full height. 

" Who is going away," continued his mother, 

" to learn to be a page, a squire, and a Christian 

We need not know what she said to him, but 


the three were together until the room grew dark, 
and there was no treasure that Louis could take 
with him which could be so valuable as the 
motherly advice he received that afternoon. 

Louis was to start for Barran's castle in the fore- 
noon of the next day, and was to be accompanied 
by Bernard and a small body of archers, for, 
although there were no wars going on at that 
time, there was always danger from robbers. All 
over France, and in many other parts of Europe, 
there were well-organized bands of men, who made 
a regular business of pillaging travelers on the 
highways. So it was necessary that Louis should 
have with him enough men to defend him against 
an attack by these brigands. 

Very early in the morning, — earlier than any 



one else in the chateau, excepting a few servants, — 
Louis arose and dressed himself. He did this very 
quietly, so as not to wake his brother. Then he 
stole softly down to a room in the lower part of the 
building, where he knew Bernard kept the falcon 
he was training. The door of this room was shut, 
but not locked, and Louis slipped in without 
waking the squire, who slept soundly in a cham- 
ber just across the passage-way. 

He closed the door, and looking around the 
room, into, which a little light came from a small, 
high window, he soon perceived the falcon sitting 
on a wooden perch, in a corner. The bird was 
unhooded, but was tied by the leg, with a short 
cord, to the perch. On a small table near by lay 
the hood. As Louis approached the falcon, it 
turned its head quickly toward him and slightly 
raised its wings. This threatening gesture made 
the boy hesitate ; he did not want to be bitten or 
scratched. Drawing back, and looking about him, 
he saw a cloth lying upon a bench. Seizing this, 
he quickly threw it over the bird, untied the cord, 
and, muffling with the cloth a little bell which was 
fastened to one of the falcon's legs, Louis snatched 
up the hood from the table, and, with the bird 
under his arm, he hurried out of the room, care- 
fully closing the door behind him. 

Out-of-doors, he quickly made his way to the 
little gate at the bottom of the grounds, and, 
through this, passed out into the road. When he 
reached a spot where he could not be seen from 
the chateau, he sat down, carefully uncovered the 
head of the falcon, and clapped over it the little 
hood. Then he threw aside the cloth, and set the 
bird upon his wrist, where it perched contentedly, 
although not finding it quite so firm a support as 
the strong hand of Bernard. While wearing the 
hood, which completely covered its eyes, it would 
not attempt to fly. 

"Now, then," said he to himself, "I shall try 
what this fine bird can do ; and when I have had 
an hour's sport, I shall take it back and put it on 
its perch, and no one will be any the worse for it. 
If I meet Bernard, as I go back, I shall not care. 
I shall have had my bit of falconry, and he can 
have his falcon. There must be herons, or some 
kind of birds, down in that field by the wood, 
where we saw Bernard yesterday." 

When Louis reached the field, he gazed eagerly 
into the air and all about him for some flying creat- 
ure, after which he could send his falcon in chase. 
But nothing, excepting a few small birds, could he 
discover, and he was not to be content with such 
game as they. If he had had dogs with him, or 
knew how himself to arouse the birds from their 
covers, he might have had a chance to send his 
falcon after a long-legged heron, or a pheasant; 

but no large bird chose to make its appearance, 
and poor Louis began to think that he would lose 
the one chance he had of seeing Raymond's falcon 
in pursuit of its prey. 

Suddenly, from under some bushes near the 
edge of the wood, a large hare leaped out, and 
went jumping across an open space toward a little 
copse a short distance beyond the spot where Louis 
stood. Our young hunter knew that falcons chased 
hares, and such small animals, as well as winged 
game, and he instantly jerked the hood from the 
head of his bird, and cast it off toward the flying 

But. to his amazement, the falcon did not pur- 
sue the hare, which, in a few moments, disappeared 
in the copse. Louis did not know that hawks or 
falcons were not always trained to chase both hares 
and birds, and that this one had been accustomed 
to fly after winged game only. 

Instead of swooping upon the hare, which, it is 
probable, it did not see, the falcon rose into the 
air, and began to soar around in a great circle. 

"Perhaps it will see some game for itself," 
thought Louis, " and that will do just as well." 

But the falcon did not appear to be in pursuit of 
anything. It only flew around and around, ap- 
parently rising higher and higher each moment. 
Louis now became anxious for it to come down, 
so that he could try again in some other place to 
scare up some game, and he began to whistle and 
call, as he had heard the falconers do when they 
wished their birds to descend. 

But the falcon paid no attention to his calls, and, 
after rising to a great height, it flew away to the 
south, and presently was lost to sight. 

Poor Louis was overwhelmed with grief. It 
seemed to him that he could never hear anything 
so dismal as the last tinkle of the little bell on the 
falcon's leg, nor see anything so sad as the dark 
speck which he watched until it appeared to melt 
away into the distant sky. 

For some minutes Louis stood gazing up into 
the air, and then he hung his head, while a few 
tears came into his eyes. But he was a sturdy 
boy in mind and body, and he did not cry much. 
He slowly turned, and, with the hood of the falcon 
in his hand, went back to the house. 

" If they ask me about it, I shall tell them," he 
said to himself, "but I hope they will not find it 
out just as I am starting away." 

It was yet quite early when Louis reached his 
room, where he found his brother still asleep, and 
there was soon so much hurry and bustle, in the 
preparation for the departure of the little expedi 
tion, that the absence of the falcon did not seem 
to have been discovered. 

After a prolonged leave-taking, and a great. 



many tears from his mother and brother, and from 
many of the retainers and servants of the chateau, 
Louis set forth for the castle of Barran. He rode 
his mother's palfrey, a small and gentle horse, and 
was followed by quite a train of archers and men- 
at-arms, headed by the trusty Bernard. 

Chaptbr III. 

When the first pain caused by the separation 
from his dear mother and brother began to sub- 
side in Louis' heart, — and it must be admitted that 
it began to subside pretty soon, the day being so 
bright and everybody in such good spirits, — he felt 
quite proud to see himself at the head of such a 
goodly company, and greatly wished that they 
would fall in with some enemy, so that he might 
have a little conquering to tell about when he 
should reach his future home. But no enemy was 
met, and, if a fight had taken place, it is not likely 
that the boy would have been able to boast of his 
part in it, for Bernard was very careful of his 
young charge, and as soon as they had left the 
neighborhood of the Chateau de Viteau, and had 
entered the forest through which ran their road 
for the greater part of the journey, he made Louis 
ride about the middle of the little procession, while 
he himself went a short distance in advance, looking 
carefully about him for the first signs of robbers, 
or any one else who might be likely to dispute 
their passage. 

But no such persons were met, and toward the 
end of the afternoon Louis and his train rode into 
the court-yard of the castle. 

The moment that he entered the great gates, 
the quick eye of the boy perceived that he had 
come to a place very different from his mother's 
chateau. He had supposed there would be a dif- 
ference, but had never imagined it would be so 
great. There were a good many serving-people, 
of various ranks and orders, at Viteau. There 
were ladies in attendance on his mother ; and 
sometimes there were knights and other visitors, 
whose diversions had made what Raymond and 
Louis had considered a very gay time ; but there 
never had been anything like the lively scenes 
which met the eye of our young friend, both in the 
court-yard and in the halls of the castle itself. 
Outside there were boy-pages running on various 
errands, or standing about, watching other people 
and neglecting their own business ; and there were 
squires, men-at-arms, and archers who were loung- 
ing in the shade, or busily at work rubbing up a 
piece of armor, or putting a point on an arrow- 
head or on a blunted lance. Here and there was 
a knight not clad in armor, but in fine silk and 

embroidered cloth, looking at horses which were 
being led about the inclosure by varlets or infe- 
rior serving-men, who generally were dressed in 
clothes of dirty leather. Two barefooted monks, 
one of them holding the bridle of a donkey, with 
a bag thrown across its back, were talking to- 
gether near the gate. Some people were laughing, 
some were talking, some were calling to others at a 
distance, and some were hammering ; the horses 
were making a good deal of noise with their feet; 
a man was blowing a horn, which he had begun to 
blow as soon as Louis had entered the gates, and 
which was intended, it appeared, as a general an- 
nouncement that somebody had arrived who was a 
friend, and had been admitted freely. All together, 
there was more noise, and moving about, and 
standing still, and lying down, than Louis had ever 
seen, at one time, before. 

Inside the castle there was not so much bustle ; 
but knights and ladies, the first generally dressed 
much more finely and with more show of color and 
ornament than their female companions, were to 
be seen here and there. The pages who were not 
running about or standing still outside seemed 
to be doing the same inside ; there was a clatter 
of metal and wooden dishes in the dining-hall, 
where the servants were preparing supper ; and, in 
a room opening into the great hall, a tall knight sat 
upon a stool, with a little harp on his knee, singing 
one of the romantic songs which were so much 
liked in those days, and accompanying his voice 
with a steady " tum-tum " on the harp-strings. 
Around him were several knights and ladies, some 
sitting and some standing, and all listening, with 
much satisfaction, to his song. 

The Count de Barran, a tall, spare man, with 
an ugly but good-humored face, gave Louis a 
kindly welcome. 

" He is the son of Raymond de Viteau, my old 
brother-at-arms," he said to a knight with a great 
brown beard, who stood beside him, "and I shall 
try to make of him as good a knight as his — as 
I can." 

" Yeu were going to say ' as good a knight as 
his father,' good sir," said Louis quickly, looking 
up into Barran's face. " Do you think I can not 
be that?" 

"That will depend upon yourself," said the 
master of the castle. " Your father was brave and 
noble above his fellow-knights. If you become 
his equal, my little fellow, I shall be very proud. 
And now I shall send you to my sister, the Lady 
Clemence, who will see that you are taken care of." 

" The boy's quickness of wit comes out well, even 
now," said the brown-bearded knight ; " but you 
may have to wait for the bravery and the honor to 
show themselves." 


"Not long, I hope," replied Barran. "Good 
blood must soon make some sign, if he has it in 

The next day Bernard and his train returned to 
Viteau, with many messages from Louis, and the 
life of the boy, as the youngest page in the castle, 
fairly commenced. In a few days he began to un- 
derstand his duties, and to make friends among the 
other pages, all of whom were sons of well-born 
people. These boys had come to the castle to 
receive the only education they would ever have. 
Louis did not at first very much like to wait upon 
the knights and ladies at table, and to find himself 
expected to serve so many people in so many 
ways; but he soon became used to these things, 
especially when he saw other boys, whom he knew 
to be just as good as he was, doing what he was 
expected to do. 

He had a bright, interesting face, and he soon 
became a favorite, especially among the ladies, for 
they liked to be waited upon by a page who was 
so good humored and quick. The Count de Bar- 
ran was not married, and his sister, the Lady 
Clemence, was at the head of domestic affairs in 
his castle. 

The only very young person among the visitors 
at the castle was a little girl named Agnes, the 
motherless daughter of Count Hugo de Lanne, the 
brown-bearded man who had talked with De Bar- 
ran about his new page. Between this girl and 
Louis a friendship soon sprang up. Agnes was a 
year older than he, and she knew so much of 
castle-life, and of the duties of a page, that she 
became one of his best instructors. She was a lively, 
impulsive girl ; and this was the reason, no doubt, 
why she and Louis got on so well together. 

One morning, as Agnes was passing through an 
upper hall, she saw, standing at a window which 
overlooked the court-yard, our young friend Louis, 
with an enormous battle-ax over his shoulder. As 
she approached, he turned from the window, out of 
which he had been looking. 

" What in the world," she cried, " are you doing 
with that great ax, and what makes you look so 
doleful ? " 

" I am taking the ax down to the armorer's shop, 
to be sharpened and polished," he said. 

" It is too big a thing for you to be carrying 
about," said Agnes, " and it seems sharp enough 
now. And as to you, you look as if you were 
going somewhere to cut your head off with it. 
What is the matter with you? " 

" That is the matter," said Louis, turning again 
to the window, and pointing to a body of horsemen 
who were just riding out of the gate. They had 
dogs with them, and several of them carried each 
a hooded falcon perched upon his wrist. 

" Did you want to go hunting herons ? Is that 
what troubles you ? " asked Agnes. 

"No, indeed; I don't want to go," said Louis. 
" I hate to see falcons." 

" What did you look at them for, then?" asked 
Agnes. " But I don't see how you can hate them. 
I love to see them swooping about, so lordly, in 
the air. Why do not you like them as well as I 

Moved by a strong desire to share his secret with 
some one, Louis, after a little hesitation, finally 
put the battle-ax on the floor, and told Agnes the 
whole story of the loss of his brother's falcon, first 
making her promise that she would never repeat 
it to any one. He told it all in a straightforward 
way, and finished by explaining how the sight of 
the hunters made him think of his poor brother, 
who could not go hawking for ever so long. In- 
deed, he did not know that Bernard would be will- 
ing to get another hawk and take all the trouble 
of training it. He might be very angry. 

" I think it 's easy enough to make that right," 
said Agnes. "You ought to give your brother 
another hawk, already trained." 

" I would like much to know where I am to get 
it," said Louis. 

Agnes thought for a moment. 

" My father will give you one," she said, "if I 
ask him. If he questions me as to what you want 
with it, I can tell him, with truth, that you want 
to give it to your brother, who has no falcon, and 
who needs one very much." 

" Do you really think he would give me one ? " 
asked Louis, with brightening face. 

" I am sure of it," said Agnes. " He has plenty 
of trained falcons, and he could spare one easily 
enough. I will ask him, as soon as he comes back 

Accordingly, when Count Hugo returned from 
his hawking expedition that afternoon, he was met 
by his little daughter, who asked him for a falcon, 
a well-trained and good one, which could hunt 
hares as well as birds, and which would be sure to 
come back to its master whenever it was called. 

Of course such a request as this excited some 
surprise, and required a good deal of explanation. 
But when Count Hugo, who was a very indulgent 
father, and who had also quite a liking for Louis, 
heard what was to be done with the bird, he con- 
sented to give it. 

" If he wanted it for himself," he said, " I should 
not let him have it, for a page has no need of fal- 
cons, and a boy of the right spirit ought not to 
desire gifts ; but, as he wants it for his brother, who 
is in a station to use it, it shows a generous disposi- 
tion, and he shall have it." And calling to one of 
his falconers to bring him a hawk, he handed it to 



Agnes, and told her that she should herself give 
it to her young friend. 

" He and you can look at it for a quarter of 
an hour," said the Count, "and then he must 
bring it back to Orion, here, who will feed and 
take care of it until the boy has an opportunity of 
sending it to his brother. Don't take its hood off, 
and keep your fingers well clear of its beak." 

When Agnes appeared with the falcon unsteadily 
perched on her two small fists, which she had 
covered with a scarf, to keep its talons from hurt- 
ing her, Louis was overwhelmed with delight. He 
was sure that this was a much finer bird than the 
one he had lost. 

When the falcon had been sufficiently admired, 
and had been returned to its keeper, and when 
Louis had run to find Count Hugo, and had 
thanked him for his kindness, the question arose 

to him myself. I want him to have it just as soon 
as he can get it," said Louis. 

"I can lend you my jennet," said Agnes. "He 
is small, but can travel far." 

" You will lend him !" cried Louis. " And are 
you not going to use him for two days ? It will 
take at the very least two days to go to Viteau and 
come back." 

" I may not ride him for a week," said Agnes. 
"But you must not travel to your mother's house 
alone. You must wait until some company is 
going that way." 

Louis would have been willing to start off by 
himself, but he knew he would not be allowed to 
do so ; and he had to curb his impatience for three 
whole days before an opportunity of making his 
journey offered itself. Then a knight from the 
south was leaving the castle, with a small train, 

Wwmmn ml 



between the two young friends : How was he to be and as they would pass near Viteau, Louis was 
carried to Raymond ? allowed to accompany them. 

" If I had any way of riding there, I 'd take it The Count de Barran was not pleased that his 


new page should ask for leave of absence so soon : 
but, as it was represented that there was good 
reason for the journey, and as the Lady Clemence 
urged the boy's request, he was allowed to go. 

So, early one morning Louis started away, the 
gayest of his company, his little Spanish steed 
frisking beneath him, the falcon perched bravely 
on his arm, and Agnes waving her scarf to him 
from a window of the castle. 

All went well during the forenoon, excepting 

Viteau. It could not be far, and his spirited little 
horse would soon take him there. 

Consequently, when he came to the place where 
his companions took their way eastward, Louis fell 


that the falcon became very heavy, and had to be 
perched on the saddle-bow ; but, during a short 
halt which the party made about noon, Louis dis- 
covered that it was not the intention of the knight 
from the south to take the most direct road to 
Viteau. He meant, a mile or two farther on, to 
turn to the east, and to spend the night at a cha- 
teau belonging to a friend. Then, the next day, he 
would pursue his journey and would pass, by a 
rather circuitous road, near to Viteau. 

Louis did not want to stop all night anywhere 
excepting in his mother's house, and he made up 
his mind that, when he reached the forking of the 
road, he would leave the party and gallop on to 

behind and, instead of following them, he kept on 
the road to Viteau, urging his horse forward at the 
top of its speed. He hoped that his departure had 
not been noticed, and that he would not be missed 
until he had gone so far that he could not be over- 
taken. He expected to be pursued, for he knew 
the knight and his men would not allow him to go 
off by himself if it could be prevented. 

So he galloped on, his falcon tightly grasping the 
saddle-bow, and he himself turning around every 
few minutes, to see if he were followed. But he 
saw no horsemen riding after him. The knight's 
men had straggled a good deal after they had 
turned into the new road, and Louis was not 




missed for an hour or two. Then, when his 
absence was discovered, the knight sent three men 
after him, with instructions to bring him back, or to 
escort him to Viteau, in case they found him near 
that place. It was supposed, of course, that he had 
slipped away, so as to get home as soon as possible. 

The men did not like the job at all, for they 
feared they would not be able to return until after 
dark to the chateau where their party was to spend 
the night, and they did not fancy traveling at 
night for the sake of a boy they knew very 
slightly, and cared very little about. So, after rid- 
ing five or six miles, they agreed to halt until 
nearly night, and ride back to their party at the 
top of their speed, and report that they had over- 
taken Louis, and had accompanied him to a spot 
within sight of his mother's chateau. This story 
was believed by the knight from the south, who 
had no very clear idea as to the distance of Viteau 
from the forks of the road ; and no further thought 
was given to the young page. 

As for Louis, he kept madly on his way. His 
horse was strong and fleet, but it was beginning to 
flag a little in its pace, when, suddenly, it stopped 
short. A tall man stood in front of it, and in a 
moment had seized the panting animal by the 
bridle. Another man, with a pike in his hand, 

f To be con 

appeared on the right, while several others came 
out from behind some bushes on the left. The tall 
man wore a cuirass, or body-armor, of steel rings 
linked closely together, which had probably once 
been bright and shining, but which was now very 
rusty and old. He wore no other armor, and his 
clothes seemed torn and soiled. The whole party, 
indeed, as Louis, with open mouth and eyes, 
glanced quickly around him, — too much startled 
to speak, — seemed to be a very rusty set of fellows. 

Louis did not long remain silent. Indeed, he 
was the first one to speak. He had often seen 
such persons as these among the serfs and varlets 
at the castle, and he had been accustomed to 
respect from them. 

" Ho there ! " he cried, " move out of my way ; 
Step from the road, do you hear ? I am going home 
to my mother's chateau, and I am in a hurry." 

"Your mother can wait," said the tall man. "We 
should be pleased to have your company ourselves 
to-night. So do not be angry. You can not go on." 

•' I believe," cried Louis, his eyes flashing, 
although they were full of tears, "that you are 
a set of robbers." 

" That is true," said the other, "and this little 
man, and this little horse, and this very fine falcon, 
are our booty." 


By W. ]. Linton. 

There 's a time — the proverb tells us — 

For all things under the sun ; 
Even so may be proper seasons 

For good works to be done, 
And for good words to be said. 

In the fear lest I or you 
May miss the happy occasions, 

Let us here note down a few. 

When the trees are heavy with leaves. 

When the leaves lie underfoot, 
When fruit on the board is frequent, 

And while there is rind or root ; 
When the rain comes down from the heavens. 

When the sun comes after rain, 
When the autumn fields are waving 

With the weight of golden grain ; 

When the hills are purple with heather, 
When the fells are black with cold. 

When the larches are gay with their tassels red, 
When nuts are shrivel'd and old; 

Whenever there 's growth in the spring-time, 

Or June close follows May, 
And so long as the first of January 

Happens on New-Year's day ; 

When mushrooms spring in the meadows, 

Or toadstools under the trees, 
When the gnats gyrate in the sunshine, 

When the oak-boughs strain in the breeze ; 
In the days of the cuckoo and swallow, 

When the sea-gulls flee the foam, 
When the night-jar croons in the gloaming, 

Or the owl goes silently home ; 

When the lake is a placid mirror, 

When the mountains melt in mist, 
When the depths of the lake are as pillars of gold 

On a floor of amethyst ; 
When a rainbow spans the morning, 

When the thunder rends the night, 
When the snow on the hills is rosy red 

With the blush of the wakening light; 




When the soul is heavy with sadness, 

When the tears fall drop by drop, 
When the heart is glad as the heart of him 

Who climbs to a mountain-top ; 
When youth unrolls like a bracken-frond, 

When age is grandly gray 
As the side of a crag that is riven and scarr'd 

With the storms of yesterday : — 

Believe that in all of these seasons 

Some good may be done or said, 
And whenever the loving thought and will 

Are loving enough to wed; 
And well is it with the happy heart 

That hath throughly understood 
How the "time for all things under the sun 

Is always the time for good. 


Roberb H er r icK. 


Cold as paddogks^thoug-h thsy Be, 
Hens i lift thsm uPToThee, 

For. a bshison to fall 







W ij |f8BitB|(i|B 



By Charles Barnard. 

Boys and girls who travel by the Sound boats, 
from Fall River or Newport, Stonington or Provi- 
dence, or any of the ports on Long Island Sound, 
toward New York, always get up earl)- and go out 
on deck. They want to see the view as the boat 
comes in from the broad Sound and enters the East 
River. It is one of the finest sights in the country, 
and, if you ever do go that way, be sure and look 
about you the moment the light begins to shine in- 

to your state-room window. First, you will see the 
beautiful shores of Long Island and Connecticut, 
with the charming bays stretching far back among 
the undulating hills. Then there are the pretty 
cottages, the long, smooth beaches, the curious 
light-houses, and the great forts. 

As the two shores appear to come nearer 
together, you pass a funny brick light-house on 
an island, and then come the vast fortifications, 




just where the boat seems to enter a river and 
takes a sudden turn to the west. On the stone 
walls of one of these forts is a monstrous sign, 
with letters six feet high : 


There are ships and schooners passing both 
ways. You see tug-boats rushing about in search 
of a job, or toiling alongwith canal-boats, schooners, 
or barges in tow. In some of the bays perhaps you 
may see vessels at anchor, with their sails furled. 
Here and there you may pass fishermen in boats, 
anchored near their nets or over the fishing- 
grounds. Not a ship or sloop, or even a sail-boat, 
is at anchor here ; every one seems to be in a 
great hurry to get away, as if some strange, mys- 
terious danger lay hidden here. The pilot looks 
straight ahead, and the steamer plows swiftly 
along in her course. It would not be wise to drop 
anchor just now. You may sail on and see all the 
wonderful sights beyond, but you can not easily 
forget that strange place, with its warning sign, 
"Don't anchor." Once upon a time, a schooner, 
called the " Olive Branch," did come to anchor 
there, but she never sailed the seas again, and 
not so much as a stick of her could be found 
afterward that was fit for anything but to make a 
bonfire on the beach. 

The coast of the United States is several thou- 
sand miles long. Scattered along it are hundreds 
of ports and harbors, opening upon the Atlantic, 
the Gulf of Mexico, or the Pacific. They extend 
from the wooded hills of Maine, down past the 
low, sandy shores of New Jersey, the Carolinas, 
and Florida, to the shallow river-mouths of Texas, 
and, again, far along the shores that face the 
great Pacific. Into these ports come the ships of 
every nation, while up and down the coast, and far 
away to all parts of the world, sail our ships and 
steamers. At some of these places, where ships go 
in and out, as at Boston, Newport, New York, 
Charleston, and San Francisco, and at many of the 
river entrances, are stone forts built to guard the 
harbors from an enemy's ships. Great guns are 
mounted in the forts, and there are soldiers always 
on guard, to see that no one does any harm to our 

But many of these forts were planned or built a 
long time ago. Some were even used in the Revo- 
lution. Since they were built, methods and imple- 
ments of warfare have undergone great changes. 
War-ships are now covered with heavy plates of 
iron that only the largest guns can break, and they 
carry monster cannon, some of them throwing 
shells weighing over seven hundred pounds, that 

could easily knock one of our old stone forts to 

We don't want to fight. If we have a misunder- 
standing with any nation, we send some wise and 
sensible people there, to have a talk about the 
matter and try to settle things in a peaceful way. 
But, at the same time, we must be ready to fight, 
for, if we were not, some little nation might send a 
couple of war-ships over here, and before we could 
stop them they might knock our forts to pieces 
and, perhaps, burn up some of our towns. Thus 
it happens that, as the majority of our forts are not 
supplied with formidable artillery, we have tried to 
find some other way of driving away or destroying 
an enemy's ships of war in case they should try to 
enter any one of our ports. 

A war-ship may carry heavy iron armor that will 
resist the shots fired from ordinary cannon, but if a 
big bomb-shell should go off under her keel she 
could not help herself, and would instantly tumble 
to pieces and sink out of sight in the sea. This queer 
kind of under-water hostilities we could carry on, if 
necessary, almost anywhere along our coasts, and, 
conducted by our brave and skillful soldiers, not all 
the war-ships in the world would be able to capture 
our forts. 

The weapons used for this under-water warfare 
are called " torpedoes." They are queer things. 
Some rest on the bottom of the bay, like great 
frogs. Others float silently in the water, just out of 
sight, like a lazy trout sunning himself in a pool, 
and still others are like live sharks, for they can 
swim and chase a ship under water till at last they 
put their terrible teeth in her keel and drag her 
down to destruction. 

This place at the end of Long Island Sound, 
where you can see the strange sign warning ves- 
sels not to anchor, is the school where our soldiers 
are taught to use torpedoes in time of war. Here 
are used only torpedoes intended for the defense 
of our harbors. There is also another school at 
Newport. At these, they study how to use torpe- 
does on board ships and gun-boats, by way of prac- 
tice against a time when they may be required to 
attack the enemy's ships on the open water. The 
United States Government will not permit us to 
see how torpedoes are made and used, because it 
is important that this should be kept a secret, as 
far as possible. All we can do is to see, in a gen- 
eral way, how they would be used in war, and how 
they would behave in a battle. 

As I have said, there are two kinds of torpe- 
does : those that are anchored in one place, and 
those that swim about in the water. Of those 
that are anchored, there are also two kinds. One 
kind consists of great iron boxes filled with dyna- 
mite and sunk in the water at particular places. 




They rest in the mud, or on the sand and stones, 
till they are ready to be fired, when they blow up 
or explode with terrible effect ; and if a ship hap- 
pens to be passing over one of them, she is sure to 
be torn to pieces. The other kind have a float an- 
chored just out of sight under water, while the 

torpedo rests on the bottom. These, too, when 
they explode, destroy anything that happens to be 
near. At Willet's Point, where the warning sign 
tells the ships not to anchor, the torpedoes are 
planted at the bottom of the water, and some 
times, as on the Fourth of July, some of them are 
fired off. Of course all vessels are warned away, 
for the torpedo sends into the air a tremendous 
fountain of water, hundreds of feet high, that would 
destroy any ship it fell upon. 

There are two ways of firing these ground tor- 
pedoes : In one there is a wire, carefully protected 

* The illustrations to this article are copied from instantaneous 

from the water, leading from the torpedo to the 
shore. The soldiers in charge of it can send elec- 
tricity through this wire and set fire to the dyna- 
mite, and thus fire the torpedo. The torpedo is 
lost and destroyed, but the broken wire can be 
pulled ashore, and used again on another torpedo. 
The second method is to fasten to the torpedo a 
wooden float. If one of the enemy's ships passes 
over such a torpedo and happens to strike and 
push aside the float that is anchored just over it, 
this will also fire the torpedo, for the chain or rope 
that anchors the float is connected with the tor- 
pedo, and any strain or pull on the rope discharges 
it. In this way the ship itself may fire the torpedo, 
and thus become an agent in its own destruction. 

The swimming torpedoes are of two kinds. One 
of these swims like a fish, and, if it strikes its nose 
against a ship, explodes, and sinks the vessel by 
tearing a terrible hole in the bottom. Another 
kind can also swim, but it carries fastened to 
its tail a long wire, which it drags through the 
water wherever it goes. By means of this wire, 
the soldier who stands at the end, on the shore, or 
the sailor on board ship, can make the fish turn 
to the right or left, dive, turn around, go back- 
ward, or come home again when it is wanted. 
Besides this, the fish will blow up if it strikes 
against the enemy's ship, or whenever the man at 
the wire wishes to fire it. The Government will 
not tell us how such a wonderful thing can be done, 
but you may be sure that these fish-torpedoes 
are strange fellows. They seem to be able to do 
everything that a fish can do, and more, for when 
they get angry they can burst out into a frightful 
passion and send the water flying into the air for 
hundreds of feet, and woe to the sailors who are 
near ! Torpedo, ship, and men go to the bottom 
in a volcano of fire and water. Besides these an- 
chored and swimming torpedoes, there is another 
kind called spar-torpedoes, so named because they 
are placed on the ends of spars or booms that run 
out under water from the bows of small boats. 
The boats rush up to the side of the big ship, in 
the dark, and explode the torpedo underneath, 
thus sinking the vessel. 

Sometimes, on the Fourth of July, or when the 
President or some other distinguished visitor is 
at Newport or Willet's Point, some of the ground 
torpedoes are fired as a salute. And a grand 
salute it is. A time is chosen when no vessels are 
passing, and all small boats that may be near are 
warned away. The officer on the shore starts 
the steam-engine attached to the dynamo machine 
that gives the electricity, or he arranges his battery 
for the purpose. When all is ready, he presses 
his finger lightly on a knob. Instantly there 
appears out on the sea a terrible rush of solid 

photographs (by Von Sothen) of actual torpedo explosions. 




water, dark green and blazing white. It mounts 
into the air higher and higher, breaking into foam 
and spray. While this mass is white and feath- 
ery, the sea all around seems to sink into a vast 
whirlpool or crater. The water turns black, and 

the explosion, and float all about on the water. 
The boys knew what to expect, and are picking up 
the dead fish as fast as they can. On one occa- 
sion, three porpoises were swimming near where a 
torpedo was fired. For a week afterward the sol- 


then the waves rush in from every side and fill 
the hole whence the fountain sprang. An instant 
later there is what seems to be a second, though 
less violent, explosion, and another fountain rushes 
up. Then, with a roar and splash, down falls the 
tall column of water, and the sea is covered with 
seething foam, and a ring of waves spreads out 
wider and wider in every direction. Grand water 
fire-works these, as you see by the pictures. 

diers had porpoise-steaks for breakfast. At another 
time, a fisherman, who was out in his boat when a 
torpedo went off, found six wild ducks dead in the 
water. Poor birds ! They never knew what was 
the cause of the terrible concussion that killed 
them. If they were conscious of anything, it must 
have seemed to them that an earthquake had 
taken place, or that some great water-spout had 
leaped out of the sea to crush them. 


When the water is quiet again, all the men and 
boys who are waiting near in their boats row out 
to the place where the torpedo was fired. What 
are those white things floating on the water? Thev 
are fish. Thousands of them have been killed by 


Should we ever have a war with any foreign power, 
these soldiers at the Willet's Point torpedo school 
would be sent to all our forts, and hundreds upon 
hundreds of torpedoes would be planted near the 
entrances of all our ports. Then, if one of the 




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enemy's ships tried to batter down a fort which the electricity would fly along the wire under the 

guarded one of our harbors, two soldiers hiding sea, and Mr. Enemy would suddenly stop. The 

on the shore would watch the ship as she sailed poor ship would feel a terrible shock. Her iron 

in. Each man would have a small telescope sides would be torn apart, her engines would sink 


pointed in a particular direction, and when the 
ship came in sight of either, he would speak to the 
other man through a telephone. When they both 
could see the ship at once, she would be over a 
torpedo, and one or both would touch the knob, 


down through the bottom and fall out, the boilers 
would explode with a great concussion, the masts 
leap into the air, and, in an instant, in a cloud of 
smoke and spray, the mighty ship would break in 
two and sink, in a seething whirlpool, into the 




raging water. It would be indeed terrible, but 
the fort and adjacent city would be saved. 

I told you that once a schooner called the " Olive 
Branch " did anchor off the fort. She was an old 
boat, and they put her there to see what would be- 
come of her if torpedoes were fired near her. You 
know that nowadays photographers are so skillful 

shows it was a pretty close shot. Then they fired 
a torpedo directly under the schooner, and took 
three pictures one after the other. Picture No. 1 
shows the "Olive Branch " just before the explo- 
sion. The men seen on board were only dummies 
or scare-crows put there for fun. In No. 2 the 
torpedo has burst and the schooner is torn in two. 


that they can take a picture in an instant of time. 
When the torpedoes were to be fired, the photog- 
rapher set up his camera upon the shore, and 
arranged it in such a way that the pictures would 
be taken at the same time that the torpedoes 

First they tried to see how near they could come 
to the schooner and not hit it. The large picture 
Vol. X.— 2. 

The mainmast has jumped right out of the hull, 
and the hull has broken into two pieces. The 
bowsprit is bent down into the water, and the 
stern has dived the other way. In No. 3 every- 
thing is torn to a million pieces, and there is only 
a huge fountain of sticks, ropes, and muddy water. 
In No. 4 the terrible wreck is falling back in ruins 
into the sea. 




All this took only a few seconds, but the pho- 
tographer caught the strange scenes just as they 

The other pictures show different views of ex- 
plosions of torpedoes, the name on each explaining 
what it is. 

We shall never go to war if we can avoid it, 
and we shall try very hard to prevent it, for war 
is a cruel and costly way to settle disputes. Per- 
haps for a hundred years torpedoes will never be 

fired except for salutes on the Fourth of July, and 
there will be no torpedoes planted anywhere except 
at the schools at Newport and Willet's Point. But 
these torpedo schools show that we are ready to 
fight, and that is one very good way to keep out 
of a fight. Torpedoes are terrible things in war, 
and we all trust they may never be used, except as 
a wonderful kind of fire-works to salute the flag or 
the ships of other nations when they come to make 
us a friendly visit. 



By Laura F. Hinsdale. 

Of all the gods to legend given. 
The wisest dwells beyond the sea; 
One of a brotherhood of seven, 
His funny name is Hotel.* 

His brother, Daikokom, has wealth, 
His sacks of rice are tied with gold; 
But he has neither youth nor health, 
And looks forlorn and cross and old. 

But Hotel 's a jolly lad, 
Who lives in far-away Japan ; 
In simple sackcloth he is clad, 
He owns a wallet and a fan. 

He fans away the webs of care, 
And, when his purse is empty quite, 
Tosses it gayly in the air, 
And laughs to see it is so light. 

The God of Glory bears a lance, 
And wears a cuirass and a star; 
You see, with but a moment's glance, 
He's only bent on making war. 

The God of Love, with arrows bent, 
A very naughty god is he ! 
And many a gentle heart has rent, 
As all the wide world will agree. 

* Pronounced 

The children love him, high and low, 
For where he goes 't is always May; 
And joy-birds sing, and flowers grow, 
And all the world is blithe and gay. 

When he awakes, he laughs with glee, 
Because the world was plainly meant 
For just such happy souls. You see, 
His name, in English, is Content. 

' Ho-ta-e." 



By Sargent Flint. 

" Grand old trees," said Mamma, " a fine view 
from the piazza, and pleasant inside." 

" I see no fault," said Papa. 

" Except that hideous little house at the foot of 
the garden," said Aunt Amy. 

" And that horrible old man. sitting all day close 
up to our fence," said Bob. 

" Both his legs is shorter than the other," said 
little Lucy. 

" He sits on his own land," said Papa. 

" And he minds his own business," said Mamma. 

" Nevertheless, he is a very Mordecai at our 
back gate," said Aunt Amy. 

But the summer went, and, despite the hid- 
eous little house at the foot of the garden, and 
the old man smoking his pipe so near the fence, 
everbody had seemed quite merry. The grand old 
trees were bare now, and a great, melancholy pile 
of leaves in the garden was all that was left of 
their glory. Aunt Amy wished the pile had been 
a little higher, that it might have hidden old 
Mordecai's house. 

"I like Old Mortify," said Lucy; "he hands 
me my kitten when she runs away." She had 
grown used to seeing the old man walking from 
side to side, on his poor old rheumatic legs, and.felt 
kindly toward him. She had smiled first at his 
little grand-daughter, and then asked her if she 
were Mortify's little girl. 

" What you mean ? " said the child. 

" Are you his little girl ? " asked Lucy. 

" He is my grandpa ; I am Sadie." 

Lucy handed some white roses through the 
fence, and Sadie handed back a plum. To be 
sure, the plum was very hard, and Lucy could not 
eat it ; but she believed it was the best her little 
neighbor had, and always spoke to her afterward. 

Now, the weather had become so cold that Mor- 
decai no longer sat by the fence, or walked in his 
little garden ; and Lucy had not seen Sadie for 
a long time. 

In a week it would be Thanksgiving. The sky 
was gray and cold, and the tall trees waved their 
bare branches to keep warm until the snow should 
come to cover them. 

" Everything looks awfully homesick," said Bob, 
standing at the window. " This is the meanest place 
I ever saw." 

At that moment a loud, defiant crow fell upon 
his ears. 

' ' That 's Old Mordecai's cockerel," he said angrily. 

" Yes," said Lucy. " I can see him down at the 
pile of leaves." 

"I told him never to crow on our side of the 
fence," said Bob. 

Lucy laughed. 

" You may laugh, but you just see if he crows 
on our side again, Lucy Jackson." 

Once again the cockerel crowed, loudly and tri- 
umphantly. Once more Lucy laughed. Bob went 
out, and Lucy saw the cockerel scratching the 
leaves. Then she saw Bob creeping toward him 
with a bow and arrow. She laughed again, for 
she considered Bob a very poor shot. Aunt Amy 
had often said that, if no one but Bob cared for 
archery, a target would last forever. 

Mordecai's cockerel seemed to be of the same 
opinion, for he stopped a moment to turn his eye 
toward the young archer, then began to scratch 
again more diligently than before. 

Lucy did not see the arrow fly from the bow, but 
she saw Bob flying to the stable with the cockerel 
in his arms. She was so much excited that she 
ran out at once, bare-headed, to find Bob just 
drawing out the arrow from the poor fowl's breast. 

"Oh, Bob ! " she whispered, "that will hurt him 
dreadfully. " 

"Do you 'spose he likes it that way?" said 
Bob, sarcastically. 

"Oh, Bob!" she continued, " 1 did n't believe 
you could ever hit anything." 

" Nor I, either." 

She turned away her head while he drew out the 
arrow. The cockerel flapped his wings a little, 
then closed his eyes and lay quite still. 

" He 's going to die," whispered Lucy. 

" That 's just like a girl ! Why don't you help 
a fellow out ? " 

" I will do anything you want me to, Bob." 

" A girl ought to know more about such things 
than a boy." 

"I know it," sighed Lucy. "I 'm trying to 
think, but all I can remember is arsenicum and 
Jamaica ginger. He has n't sneezed, so I don't 
believe it 's arsenicum he needs. Shall I go for 
some ginger? " 

" Do you think it would do any good ? " 

" He opened one eye; maybe, if he had some 
ginger, he could open both." 

"Well, go get it; we can try it." And Lucy 
went for the ginger. 

" Hope you staid long enough," said Bob, when 




she appeared at the stable-door with a cup in her 

" That mean cook would n't give me the sugar, 
and I hurried so I spilled the ginger in the closet. 
How is he ? " 

" He keeps on breathing, but he does n't notice 

Bob took the cup, and gave the cockerel a 
spoonful of the ginger. The bird staggered to his 
feet and flapped his wings. Lucy thought surely 
he meant to crow again on their side of the fence, 
but the next instant he lay motionless before them. 

" He 's gone ! " said Bob, solemnly. 

" I wish we had tried the arsenicum," said Lucy, 
sadly. " What will Old Mortify say ? " 

And mind you, it 's my place to tell of it, and not 

" But you are going to tell, Bob?" 

" You run in, and wait and see." 

She went in and stood by the window, and 
saw him come carelessly out of the stable and walk 
about the garden, then return with the dead cock 
and cover him hastily with leaves. 

When he came in, he said : " Don't stand staring 
at that pile of leaves. It 's done, and can't be 
helped. Nothing but an old rooster, anyway! No 
business crowing on our side of the fence. I gave 
him fair warning." 

" But he did n't understand, Bob." 

" Well, he does now," said Bob. 


" I guess I shall be Old Mortify, if Papa finds it 
out. How strong this ginger smells ! — how much 
did you put in ? " 

" Five spoonfuls. I thought he was so awful 
sick he ought to have a lot." 

"Five spoonfuls ! Then you killed him." 

" Oh, Bob, don't say that ! " she cried. " What 
would Sadie say to me ?" and she lifted the bird's 
head tenderly, but it fell back again upon the 
stable-floor. Old Mordccai's cockerel would never 
crow again on either side of the fence. Little Lucy 
stood shivering, with tears in her eyes. 

" Run in the house," said Bob. 

" What shall you do ? " 

" I am going to hide him under the leaves. 

That night, after the children had gone to bed, 
the old man came up to inquire if any one had 
seen his cockerel. 

Aunt Amy went up to ask Bob. 

" Yes," said that young gentleman ; "tell him 
I saw him on the wrong side of the fence about 
four o'clock." 

As the days went by, little Lucy felt more and 
more uneasy, as she thought of what lay Under the 
leaves. She had seen Sadie out, and had heard 
her call and call for the poor cockerel that never 
came. Still she had kept quiet, waiting for Bob 
to speak. 

The day before Thanksgiving she sat alone in 
the library. Her mother and Aunt Amy had gone 



to the city to meet her grandmother, and Lucy felt 
a little lonely. Bob saw her as he passed the door, 
and stepped in, saying : 

"What is the matter with you, Lucy? Why 
can't you brighten up ? You 've had the doleful 
dumps for a week." 

" Oh, Bob ! " she answered, " why don't you tell 
about that cockerel ? It worries me awfully." 

He glanced around at all the doors, then came 
savagely up to his sister and took her roughly by 
the arm. " I suppose," he whispered almost fiercely, 
"you mean that old rooster under the leaves. 
Now, never say another word to me about it. You 
have twitted me enough." 

She looked very much astonished, as she had 
never referred to it in any way before. A mightier 
voice than little Lucy's had been calling to him 
ever since he hid the bird under the leaves. 

She saw that his conscience troubled him, and 
gained courage. " If you would only tell Mamma, 
she would tell you what to do. Oh, Bob ! I can't 
walk on that side of the garden for fear I shall see 
Sadie. She came out yesterday, and looked over 
our fence, and I heard her call the cockerel sev- 
eral times." 

Bob looked down into Lucy's face and wished 
he had not taken hold of her quite so roughly. He 
went back to the kitchen and got a large bunch of 
raisins and gave them to her, with a pat on the 
head, which she understood very well. " Too 
bad," he declared, "that you can't go out to-day." 

After he had gone, she took up the raisins, 
when, happening to look out of the window, she 
saw Sadie looking over the fence. " I will give 
her my raisins," thought Lucy. 

The cook rapped sharply as she passed the 
kitchen window, for she knew Lucy ought not to 
go out. 

" Don't give me all," said Sadie, as Lucy passed 
the great bunch through the fence. 

" To-morrow we shall have a whole box-full," 
said Lucy. 

"We can't find our rooster," said Sadie. "Grand- 
pa sold all but him ; we kept him for Thanks- 
giving. 1 don't see how he got out ot the coop. 
We can't have any Thanksgiving now." 

" Too bad ! " said little Lucy, very faintly. 

" Grandpa 's looked everywhere for him, till he 
tired himself out, and got rheumatism dreadfully. 
He thinks some of the neighbors have killed him." 

Lucy turned a little pale, and said she had a very 
bad cold and must go in 

Sadie would have been surprised had she looked 
out a few minutes later, for she would have seen 
Lucy running toward the provision store. 

" Anything wrong, Miss Lucy?" said the red- 
cheeked boy who drove the wagon. 

She went in timidly, and when she stood close 
by his side, she whispered, " How much do you 
ask for roosters? " 

" A hen would n't do ? " he asked, laughing. 

" No," she said, with a sigh, as she compared in 
her mind the proud strut of Mordecai's cockerel 
with the walk of any hen she had ever met. " No, 
I want a rooster." 

" What 's it for ? " he said, confidentially. 

" For Thanksgiving." 

" I just took two fine gobblers up." 

" It 's for — for somebody else's Thanksgiving." 

" Oho ! Why not get a small turkey ? Just the 

Why had she not thought of it before ! Perhaps 
that would help Mordecai to forgive them. (She 
had begun to blame herself with Bob, for had she 
not prepared the fatal ginger ?) 

The red-cheeked boy held up a plump little 

" Is that a dollar? " she asked. 

" That 's heavier than I thought," he said, after 
he had thrown it into the scales. "That will cost, 
all told, — let me see, — one dollar thirty-eight." 

She began feeling about her neck, as if she kept 
her money concealed somewhere about her jugular 
veins, and the tears came to her eyes. 

The red-cheeked boy became again confidential. 
" Come, now," he said, in a low tone, " how much 
do we want to pay ? What is just the little sum 
we were thinking of, when we came in ? " 

" I have only one dollar," answered Lucy, with 
her hand still guarding a jugular. 

" A dollar is quite enough to pay for a small, 
nice, plump little turkey, if the right person comes 
for it. " 

Lucy hoped she was the right person. "If you 
please," she said, as he showed her another tur- 
key, the smallest one she had ever seen, " are you 
sure it 's a turkey ? I don't want a rooster, now." 

" My word for it, Miss Lucy, yesterday after- 
noon that fowl said 'Gobble.' Shall I send it to 
your house ? " 

"If you would do him up so he would look like 
a dress, 1 would be very much obliged to you." 

While he was gone, she again put her hand to 
her neck and took off a small gold chain ; attached 
to this was a gold dollar. She had worn it since she 
was a baby; her fingers seemed unwilling to take 
it off. Her little head said, " Take it off! " and 
her little heart said, " Oh, no ! " 

When the boy came back with the turkey, look- 
ing as much like a dress as a provision man could 
make it, the small coin still remained firmly at- 
tached to the chain. 

" If you please, will you undo this ? " said Lucy. 

He looked at it a moment, without taking it in 



| November, 

hi5 hands, and said, " Why don't you charge it, 
Miss Lucy ? " 

" Oh, no, no," she said, hastily ; " Papa is not to 
pay for this. I must pay for it myself." 

" I understand ; you don't want your good works 
talked about either. Miss Lucy. But I don't want 
to take this. " 

"Come, come," said his employer from the 
other side of the store ; "fly around there ! " 

The boy hurriedly unfastened the dollar, and 
said: "You may have it back any time, Miss 

She took the turkey in her arms and went out. 
When she had walked a few steps she stopped sud- 
denly and turned and went back. The boy was 
just getting into the wagon. She pulled his coat, 
and, as he turned, said timidly : " You are so kind, 
will you tell me how to spell ' Mordecai ? ' Not 
Mortify, but Mordecai." 

" It 's a joke," he said, grinning. 

" Oh, no ! " groaned poor Lucy. 

" Mordecai," he said, pausing, with one foot on 
the wheel : " M-o-r — Mor — d-y — Mordy — k-i 

She thanked him and hurried home. 

When Bob came in. she pulled him into a corner 
and whispered : "I have bought a little turkey, the 
littlest one you ever saw, but a sure turkey, for 
Mordecai ! Run out, before you take off your 
coat, for it 's in the stable, in the oat-box; and will 
you take it to Mordecai's house? Go quick, before 
it gets dark." 

He turned toward her with an angry gesture. 

"Oh, Bob ! Sadie can't have any Thanksgiving, 
because we killed the rooster, and I knew you 
would be so sorry." 

He made no reply, but ran with great haste to 
the stable. He soon found the bundle and brought 
it to the little window, when he saw there was a 
little letter, pinned with several pins, on the out- 
side. The afternoon light was fast fading, and it 
was with some difficulty he read the note, of which 
this is a copy : 


"The good, generous little thing!" muttered 
Bob, gazing solemnly at the brown bundle, which 
was supposed to resemble dry goods. " I wonder 
where in time she got the money !. And to say 
she killed it, or had anything to do with killing it! 
Oh, I hope she wont grow up and be one of those 
good kind of folks that never have any fun and 
give all their money away. Where in the world 
did she get the money ? " He folded the note care- 

fully and put it in his pocket. " I never felt 
meaner," he thought, as he seized the turkey, with 
no gentle hand, and ran to Mordecai's house. 

The old man sat at the front window, and Bob 
thought he looked a little sour as the gate opened; 
but he came to the door as fast as he could hobble, 
for fear Mrs. Mordecai might get there first. Bob 
held out the turkey and said : "I shot your rooster, 
sir. My little sister thought you were saving him 
for Thanksgiving, and she sent you this turkey." 

"So you killed my cockerel, did ye?" said the 
old man; "a mighty fine cockerel he was!" He 
punched with his thumb the turkey that he could 
not see, as if he wondered if it could possibly be 
as fine as the cockerel. 

" I had no idea I should hit him," said Bob. " I 
am a most awful shot, sir. Would you rather 
have a live rooster ? " 

"N-no," said old Mordecai. "Though my wife 
misses his crowing in the morning — overslept every 
morning since he went." 

" *" should have killed him for Thanksgiving," 
said Mrs. Mordecai, a tired-looking little woman, 
who looked as if she could oversleep, in spite of all 
the warnings that might be sounded. " A turkey, 
Father, is better than a cockerel ; and so we have 
lost nothing." 

"You don't like to feel that yer neighbors is 
standin' round armed, ready to destroy yer prop- 
erty, — do you, eh?" 

"No, but I like to know that, if they do happen 
to destroy it, they stand ready to pay more than 
it's worth." 

' ' Yer allays did like young folks," said Mordecai, 
dryly, and hobbled back to the front window. 

"You are a good boy," said his wife. "Don't 
mind him ; he '11 speak better of you behind your 

" 'T was Lucy sent it ; I only killed the cockerel," 
said Bob, turning away. 

" I have carried the turkey down," he said to 
Lucy on his return. "Now, tell me where you got 
the money." 

" I had to take my gold dollar." Lucy could not 
keep the tears from filling her eyes. 

" Whew!" he said, "the one on your chain?" 

She nodded. 

" Born with it on, were n't you ?" 

" I don't 'member when I got it," said she, a 
little more cheerfully. " Don't go out again, Bob," 
as he started suddenly toward the door, and she 
saw him run across the garden with his skate-bag 
under his arm. 

" Hang the old rooster! " he said, as he passed 
the little house and saw old Mordecai sitting at 
the window. " It 's going to cost me a pretty sum. 
I wont do it! — It's good enough for her, to go 




spend that dollar — Just like a girl — I hope he wont 
take them. Hang Mordecai ! " Still he walked 
on rapidly until he came to Johnny Bang's house. 
" Hope he 's gone away," he said, as he pulled the 
bell, which was answered by young John himself, 
whose eyes brightened as he saw the skate-bag ; 
but he waited for Bob to speak. 

"You said last night you would give me two 
and a half; say three and they 're yours," said Bob. 

" Do you suppose I made a half a dollar in my 
sleep ? " said Johnny, with a grin. 

" Can you give me three? " 

"No, I can't." 

"Jerry will; I came to you first, because you 
made the first offer. I must have three or nothing." 

" You come in and sit down, and I '11 see if I can 
work Mother up to it." 

Johnny's mother proved a person easily "worked 
up," for in a few minutes he returned with three 
crisp bills in his hand. 

" I told her they cost five dollars, and you had 
had them only two weeks ; was that straight ? " 

"Yes," said Bob, " that's straight." 

" She asked me if you had a right to sell them 

without asking your father, and I told her you 
bought them yourself with your own money that 
you had saved ; was that straight ? " 

" Yes," said Bob, his mouth twitching a little, 
" that 's straight." 

He took the skates from the bag and handed 
them to his friend. 

" Wont throw in the bag ? " said Johnny. 

" Oh, I '11 throw in the whole family," said Bob, 
sarcastically, as he left the house. 

The first call he made was on the red-cheeked boy 
at the provision store ; then he went to the city. 

After supper, when little Lucy was sitting with her 
father, talking about Thanksgiving, he came in, 
looking rather tired, and gave her a tiny box. She 
opened it and found first a note, which said to her : 

"Dear Lucy: You did the square thing by me and I wont 
forget it. Hang these on your chain in remembrance of Old 
Mordecai's rooster. Bob." 

And under some pink cotton lay her own little 
dollar, and beside it a small gold cockerel, as 
proud-looking as Old Mordecai's before Bob's un- 
lucky shot. 

>yhjt} &$**& if* ft &0j. 

2 4 



By Rose Hartwick. Thorpe. 

here English daisies blossom, 

And English robins sing, 
When all the land was fragrant 
Beneath the feet of Spring, 

MM^ : m^m^ 

*-cs?S" ,: 



Two little sisters wandered, 

Together, hand in hand, 
Along the dusty highway, 

Their bare feet soiled and tanned 



The bright-eyed daisies blossomed 

In valley and in glen, 
The robins sang their sweetest, 

Spring smiled — but not for them. 




1 ^ 



ENEATH the trees of Whitehall, 

Within their shadow brown, 
From out the royal palace 

The Oueen came walking down. 

She saw the children standing, 

Together, side by side, 
And, gazing down with pity. 

She asked them why they cried 


EAR lady," said the eldest, 
" My little sister Bess 
And I have come together 
A hundred miles, I guess. 

' Sometimes the roads were dusty, 
And sometimes they were green; 
We 're very tired and hungry — 
We want to see the Queen. 

' For Mother's sick, dear Lady, 
She cries 'most all the day ; 
We hear her telling Jesus, 

When she thinks we 're at play. 




HE tells Him all about it, 

How when King James was King 
We were so rich and happy 
And had 'most everything. 

" We had our own dear father, 
At home beside the Thames, 
But Father went to battle 

Because he loved King James. 

And then things were so different — 

I can not tell you how. 
We have n't any father, 

Nor any nice things now. 

" So then we came together, 

Right through the meadow green, 
And prayed for God to help us, 
And take us to the Queen ; 

ia 5. 




Her simple story finished, 
She gazed up in surprise, 

To see the lovely lady 

With tear-drops in her eyes. 




ND when the English robins 

' Had sought each downy nest, 

' And when the bright-eyed daisies 

i Dew-damp, had gone to rest, 

A carriage, such as never 
Had passed that way before 

Set down two little children 
Beside the widow's door. 

A slip of paper, saying: 

" The daughter of King James 

Gives to these little children 

Their home beside the Thames" 

A H A P P Y T H O U Q H T . 


By Katharine R. McDowell. 

" What a looking room ! " exclaimed Olive 
Kendall, as she came in from school and added to 
the confusion of the sitting-room by throwing her 
satchel on the lounge. " Why does n't somebody 
fix it up ? " But no one answered. Only Leila 
and Nora were there to answer, and both their 
heads were bent over a geographical puzzle. 

Olive threw herself into an easy-chair and looked 
out of the large bay-window. It was pleasanter to 
turn her head that way than to look around the 
disordered room. She only wished she could turn 
her thoughts away from the room as easily, but she 
could not so long as that voice kept saying : 

"You know that Bridget is out with the twins, 
and that Kate is busy getting dinner, and that 
rhere is no one but yourself to put the room in 
order — you and your little sisters. Why not go to 
work and have a surprise for Mamma when she 
comes in ? " 

" Leila and Nora, we really ought to fix up the 
room," said Olive, with a half-yawn. "The twins 
have scattered their things. Wont you help ? " 

"In a minute," answered Nora. " We only 
want a little crooked piece to go right in there." 

" Yes," responded Leila, " it 's Finland. I re- 
member the very piece — colored yellow, and with a 
bit of sea-coast," as she turned to look for it. 

"Are n't you coming?" asked Olive, as she 
listlessly folded an afghan. Again the answer was : 

" Just as soon as we find Finland." 

Olive looked about the room in a hopeless, help- 
less sort of way. "With Leila and Nora both in 
Finland," she thought, " I may as well give up ex- 
pecting their help. If it were only a game " 

She stood a moment in thought. Her face sud- 
denly brightened. She went to Mamma's desk and 
cut six slips of paper, then wrote a word on each. 

" Are you getting some strips ready for Conse- 
quences? " asked Leila, a new interest in her face, 
as she looked up from the pieces of map. 

"No," replied Olive, at which the search for 
Finland was renewed. 

" Are we. going to play Anagrams ? " ventured 
Nora, to whom Leila had just whispered something 
as she motioned toward Olive. 

" No, but you 've guessed pretty well," admitted 
Olive, " for it 's a game — a new one." 

" A game ! A new one ! " echoed the little sis- 
ters, not only losing interest in Finland, but letting 
the whole of Europe fall apart. " Let 's play it ! 
I 'm tired of this map-puzzle." 

" Yes, Olive, tell us how," pleaded Leila, " and 
then we '11 help with the room. We truly will." 

" I don't know that you '11 like the game," said 
Olive, " but I 'm sure that Mamma will." 

■■ Then we shall, of course," said Nora, very 
decidedly. " Let 's begin it now." 

So Olive laid the slips on the table — the written 
side downward. Then she said . " Now we are 
to draw in turn, the youngest first. Come, Nora ! " 

Nora looked at the different pieces of paper, put 
her finger on the last, and then suddenly changed 
her mind and took the one nearest her. 

"Don't look at it yet, Nora," said Olive. 

" Oh, I shall certainly look, if Leila does n't 
hurry," said Nora, excitedly, shutting her eyes 
very tight, but soon opening them to ask: "Is 
there a prize, Olive ? " and jumping up and down as 
Olive nodded. 

After Leila had settled upon one of the slips, she 
and Nora made Olive shut her eyes while they 
changed all about the papers that were left, for 
fear that Olive, having made them, might choose 
a better one than they. At last they all had slips. 

" Now read !" signaled Olive. 

" Tabic" said Nora, consulting her paper. 

" Chairs," read Leila, from hers. 

" Carpet " announced Olive. 

" Now what?" asked Nora. " Do I pass mine 
on to Leila?" But Olive was on her knees, pick- 
ing up a lot of playthings. 

" Mine was carpi-/," she said, as she hastily put 
a handful of toys into a little cart belonging to the 
twins, "so I 'm to take everything off the carpet 
that does n't belong there. You are to put in 
order whatever your paper tells you, and the game 
is to do it as well and as quickly as you can." 

Nora flew to the table. She ran into the hall 
with Teddy's hat, and into the nursery witli 
Freddy's whip. Then she got a brush and prepared 
to sweep off the table-cover. To do this she piled 
some books on one of the chairs. 

" My paper says chairs," cried Leila, " and there 
are eight of them ! If you put those books there, 
I '11 never get through." 

" The other table is yours also, Nora," said 
Olive, as she straightened the rug in front of the 
fire. "Look on your paper." 

Sure enough, there was an s that Nora had over- 
looked ! So' the books found a place on the little 
stand while the big table was being brushed, and 
were then piled nicely up, and the magazines and 




papers laid together, after which Nora stood oft" and 
viewed the effect with such satisfaction as almost to 
forget the smaller table. 

She was reminded of it, however, by Leila, who 
was flourishing a duster about as she went from 
one chair to another, fastening a tidy here and 
shaking up a cushion there, until she was ready 
to say : " The whole eight are done." 

"I 've finished, too," said Olive, as she brushed 
the hearth and hung the little broom at one side 
of the open fire-place. ' : Now, we all draw again." 

Nora chose quickly this time, and went right at 
her work when she saw the word "Mantel" hardly 
hearing Leila say "Desk," and Olive ''Lounge." 

"Well, what do you think of the game ? " asked 
Olive, a while after, as, having left the room to put 
away her school-satchel, she returned and found 
Leila and Nora putting the finishing touches to 
their tasks, and rejoicing over the finding of Fin- 
land in Mamma's desk. 

" Why, we think it a great success — don't we. 
Nora ? And we see now why you did n't know the 
name," added Leila, laughingly. 

" Here comes Mamma up the walk," announced 
Nora from the bay-window. 

" Well, don't sav anything, and see if she notices 
the room," suggested Leila. 

Mamma came to the sitting-room door, and 
looked in. No wonder she smiled at the picture. 
The room a model of neatness, the winter's sun 
streaming in at the window, the fire crackling on 
the hearth, and three faces upturned for a kiss. 

'• So Bridget is home," said Mamma, in a tone 

of relief, as she glanced about the room. " I left 
her getting rubbers for the twins, and feared she 
would n't return till dinner-time." 

" She is n't home, Mamma," said Olive, while 
Nora and Leila exchanged happy glances, and 
Nora could n't keep from saying (though she said 
afterward she tried hard not to tell) : 

" We fixed it, Mamma. It 's Olive's game!" 

Then, of course, Mamma had to hear all about 
it, and Papa, too, when he came to dinner. 
Otherwise he might not have brought up those 
slips of red card-board that he did that evening, 
nor have seated himself in the midst of them all, 
and said : " Now, I propose we make a set of cards 
in fine style," as he proceeded to write on each the 
word that Olive or Leila or Nora would tell him. 

''And now, what shall we call the game ? " asked 
Papa, with pen ready to put the name on the other 
side of the six bright cards. 

"How would the 'Game of Usefulness' do?" 
suggested Olive. 

" Or ' Daily Duty ' ? " put in Leila ; " for we 've 
promised to play it every day." 

"Would n't 'Helping Hands' sound well?" 
asked Mamma. And they probably agreed upon 
that, for, when Nora went up to bed, one of her 
plump hands held the new cards, and the name 
that Mamma had proposed was written on each. 

"I wonder what the prize was?" she asked 
Leila the last thing that night. 

" I guess it must have been Mamma's smile 
when she looked in," said Leila. 

And was not that a prize worth trying for? 


By C. L. G. Scales. 

The boys and girls of the nineteenth century 
probably seldom think of the marvelous changes 
that have been wrought in our modern civiliza- 
tion by the invention of printing ; but, if some 
mischievous fairy should suddenly whisk out of 
sight all the books, pamphlets, newspapers, and 
magazines in the land, and leave not a trace of a 
printed page behind, then doubtless we should 
all begin to realize something of what the printing- 
press has done for us, and perhaps take to won- 
dering how people got on in the days when it was 
not known. Books of some sort, however, the 
people of that time must have had, for the com- 
plaint that "of making many books there is no 
end " comes echoing down to us even from the far- 

off era of King Solomon. But, how could they 
have been made, and what kind of books were they ? 
Very unlike our own, as we shall presently see. 
The old authors of Greece and Rome, over whose 
works your big brothers — and sisters, too — are 
still poring in high school and college, would 
never recognize their own writings in the new 
dress the printers have given them ; and, if ushered 
into a modern library, they would stare with aston- 
ishment at the strange scenes before them. But 
a glimpse of their book-shelves would be no less of 
a surprise to some of us. 

It so happens that some of those old-time 
authors have been so kind as to leave their library- 
doors ajar behind them, and. by taking the trouble 



to clear away from the pathway the rubbish and the 
dust of ages, we may enter and survey at our leisure 
' the quaint appointments and the rare treasures 

Come with me, then, and let us see what an old 
Roman library is like — the library of a man who 
never dreamed of a printed page. 

The library itself is a comparatively small room. 
Entering the door, we first note the windows, few 
in number, and so high up in the wall that there is 
plainly little danger of their tempting the student 
or reader to gaze abroad ; then the floor of plain, 
smooth marble, or laid in mosaics with marbles of 

little cells, are the books, many of them classics, 
which have been reprinted in our modern text, and 
are read and admired by the scholars and wise men 
of to-day. 

Let us look at this one in a gay, yellow dress, 
which beams out at us with its one round black eye 
like a cheerful little Cyclops, and see what kind of 
a book it is. We take up the roll, which is, per- 
haps, ten inches in width, and begin to unfold it. 
But it seems to have no end, and at last unrolls 
before our astonished gaze one continuous sheet of 
thick, tough paper, some ten feet in length, the 
inner end of which is fastened to the rod with the 


various sorts ; the walls covered with arabesques 
and traceries from the Greek mythology, and pre- 
senting at intervals busts of famous old Greek and 
Roman authors. Next our wondering glances fall 
upon a row of presses or cupboards, some six feet 
in height, ranged around the sides of the room. 
Each is filled with shelves divided off into little 
compartments or pigeon-holes, and in these snugly 
repose curious purple, yellow, and grayish rolls of 
different sizes, from the centers of which project 
slender rods, terminating in polished knobs. From 
each of these rods dangles a small label, covered 
with hieroglyphics in light red ink. 

But these queer rolls, so snugly reposing in their 

projecting knobs. A second glance shows us that 
the whole of one side is closely covered with text 
written in parallel columns from left to right, up 
and down the sheet, the spaces between being de- 
fined by light red lines which curiously intersect 
the whole expanse. The letters of the text, out- 
lined almost in relief by the thick, black ink with 
which they are written, look out at us with an un- 
recognizing stare, wholly ignoring the fact that, in 
their modern dress, some of us have had a hard 
struggle with them in order to maintain our rank 
in the Latin class at school. But the words, as we 
see them here on this old scroll, seem an unknown 
tongue to us, till the title of the book, written at 




the end next the staff, as well as at the beginning, 
explains the mystery. The volume we hold is, it 
seems, the Annates of O. Ennius, the " Father 
Ennius " mentioned by Horace and other Latin 
poets. And, satisfied with this, we replace the 
book in its pigeon-hole, and pass on to the more 
familiar names of Horace and Martial, that greet 
us on the pendent labels of two rolls that the It- 
brarius (one of the slaves whose task is the care 
of the library and the copying of books) has just 
brought in and placed in a hitherto vacant niche of 
the library. But a short examination of these 
volumes soon convinces us that, for practical pur- 
poses, our well-thumbed "Anthon," " Harkness," 
or " Chase and Stewart's," are more desirable. 
Fancy, for instance, a luckless school-boy rising to 
recite in Horace or Virgil, with one of these cumber- 
some rolls to be held up and uncoiled while gazing 
wildly up and down this wilderness of words, which 
at first glance seems to be chiefly composed of v's, 
owing to the queer practice of the old Romans in 
making their u's like v's ! And a second glance, 
moreover, shows that we have before us indeed a 
pathless wilderness of words, for not a single punc- 
tuation-mark (save here and there' a lonesome- 
looking period) holds out its friendly signal to mark 
the boundary lines of the author's thought. 

But now, through the half-open door by which 
the librariiis has just entered, we catch a glimpse 
of an' adjoining room, where his fellow-slaves are 
busily at work copying manuscripts and perform- 
ing the various other operations connected with 
the art of Roman book-making. At our request 
the librariiis allows us to enter this room, and 
accompanies us himself to explain the new and 
jtrange process we are about to witness. Seated 
near the door is a slave, who is busily engaged in 
gluing together, into one long sheet, strips of 
paper, made, we are told, of a reed that grows on 
the banks of the Nile and is called papyrus. 
When this sheet is long enough, he passes it to the 
next sla/e, who stains its back with saffron and then 
hands it to another, receiving from him in return a 
similar sheet, covered, on one side only, with the 
same parallel columns of closely written text with 
which we have already become familiar. This is now 
handed to another slave, whose task it is to fasten 
it by the end which bears the corona or flourish — 
a mark denoting that the transcriber's and the 
reader's task is done — to a cylindrical stick of pol- 
ished ivory terminating in glistening knobs of the 
same material. Glancing over his shoulder, we see 
another slave with a pile of these cylindrical sticks, 
some of ivory, some of woods of various sorts. 
These latter he rubs vigorously with pumice-stone 
preparatory to staining them with the purple, 
yellow, and black dyes at his side. 

But let us see what further befalls the sheet just 
attached to the ivory staff. We find that it has 
been coiled deftly around its center-piece, its ends 
have been polished and colored, and it is now ready 
for its coyer of parchment, which has also made 
the acquaintance of the brittle pumice and brilliant 
dyes, its margins being adorned with scarlet lines 
which gleam out vividly along the less glowing 
purple of its surface. Cedar-oil, too, has been 
rubbed into it to check the depredations of 
insects, and now the long sheet is rolled up tight 
and tied with the "red thongs." The label, with 
the name of the work and its author, is attached, 
and a new volume is ready for the Roman reading- 

With books like these, however, we can well 
understand why it is that in every Roman library 
the door faced to the east, in order to give the 
scrolls the benefit of the morning sun, and pre- 
vent the formation of mold upon the cherished 

Realizing after all this the immense labor and 
pains involved in the production of such works as 
these, we turn to the obliging librariiis and ask 
him what price they bring in the market, judge 
of our surprise when he assures us that, though a 
volume so carefully prepared as the one we have 
just seen may sell for somewhat more, yet twenty 
cents of our money is an ordinary price, and that 
many books, by even so popular an author as Mar- 
tial, are sold for a still smaller sum. 

Indeed, a new " book " that does not happen to 
suit the popular taste, he tells us, often finds its way 
directly to the fish-markets and groceries, to be 
used by the clerks for casting up accounts, or for 
wrapping up goods for delivery to their customers. 
Greatly astonished at this revelation as to the 
abundant supply and slight value of books in " ye 
olden time," we continue our questioning, and. be- 
thinking ourselves that they have no newspapers 
here, we ask how the literary world becomes aware 
of the publication of a new work. To this he re- 
plies that the book-sellers announce its appearance 
on the posts of their shop-doors, and that it is also 
customary for an author to send early copies to his 
rich and powerful friends and patrons, some of 
whom will not fail to give it notoriety by repeating 
passages from it at the next dinner-party which 
they attend. But one question only suggests an- 
other, and we find ourselves quite in danger of 
turning into animated interrogation-points, when, 
fortunately, the gathering shadows warn us that 
we must take our departure and journey back to 
the modern world with its myriad book-shelves, 
which the printing-press has filled with volumes 
so unlike the rare, quaint treasures of this old Ro- 
man librarv. 

" PUPS." 

[After a painting by J. G. Brown.] 

Vol. X.— 3. 





(A Tlumksgiving Story. ) 

By Sophie Swett. 

It did seem as if Thanksgiving never would 

The November page of the Farmers' Almanac 
that hung under the clock bore innumerable prints 
of small thumbs that had laboriously traveled 
across it, counting the number of days that must 
be lived through before that happy day arrived 
which, according to the Governor's proclamation, 
was to be "a day of thanksgiving and praise." 

Little Darius and Lucy Ann thought praise 
meant plum-pudding, and even Jonah, who was 
getting to be an old boy, and could do problems 
in cube root, owned that it was not very long ago 
that he thought so too. 

There was a continual weighing and measuring 
of goodies, and odors of spice and sweetness 
floated out of the great kitchen all over the house. 
The children seeded raisins, and sliced citron, and 
cracked walnuts, and chopped apples for the 
mince-pies, but Lucy Ann and little Darius were 
getting discouraged, for it seemed every day as 
if the next must be Thanksgiving, and yet when 
they awoke in the morning it was n't. 

This was not going to be only an ordinary Thanks- 
giving day, with almost everything nice that could 
be thought of for dinner, and a great many aunts 
and uncles and cousins, all grown up, and all 
wanting to sit down and talk (instead of having 
a good time), for visitors. This year, their little 
city cousin, whom they had never seen, was coming 
to spend Thanksgiving with them. 

Her name was Mabel Hortense, and the children 
were very proud of having a cousin who lived in 
the city and was named Mabel Hortense. At 
Damsonfield Four Corners, where they lived, all 
the little girls were named Mary Jane or Sarah 
Ann or Lucy Maria, or, at the best, Hattie and 
Carrie ; they had scarcely even heard of so fine a 
name as Mabel Hortense. But a little girl who 
lived in a great city, where there was scarcely 
a bit of anything so common as grass, and the 
" great big houses were all hitched on to each 
other," as Roxy Jane, the hired girl, said, and 
hand-organs and monkeys were as thick as huckle- 
berries in August, and there was a candy store at 
every corner, could not be expected to have a 
common name. 

They had a photograph of Mabel Hortense, 
with her hair banged and a doll almost as large 
as a real live babv in her arms. She had a neck- 

lace around her neck and bracelets on her arms 
and ear-rings in her ears. Becky borrowed Hannah 
Olive Judson's blue-glass beads to wear during 
Mabel Hortense's visit, and made Lucy Ann a neck- 
lace of red alder-berries, and then, as they all had 
on their Sunday clothes, she felt ready for Mabel 
Hortense's arrival. 

It was the very night before Thanksgiving Da}', 
and all the aunts and uncles and cousins had 
arrived, except Mabel Hortense and her mother, 
and Peter Trott, the hired man, had driven over 
to the station to bring them. 

Even little Darius, who had begun to think that 
Thanksgiving Day had been postponed until next 
year, was now convinced that it was coming to- 
morrow'. There was a blazing log-fire in the great 
fireplace in the sitting-room, and Priscilla sat on 
the rug in front of it, herself and her three kittens 
in that condition of holiday freshness which be- 
comes New England cats on the eve of Thanks- 
giving Day. The canary birds were singing so 
loud that they had to be muffled in Grandpa's 
bandana handkerchief, that the aunts and uncles 
and cousins might hear each other relate all the 
happenings of the past year. 

Little Darius was continually running to the 
door, with his cage of white mice under one arm 
and his tame squirrel under the other, so that he 
might show them to Mabel Hortense the very first 

" I would n't be such a silly," said Lucy Ann, 
who had her black Dinah, with raveled yarn for 
wool, and two great white buttons for eyes, in her 
arms, and wanted Mabel Hortense to see her the 
very first thing. "Why in the city, where she 
lives, the mice are all white, and so tame that they 
come out and dance when people play on the 
piano. Peter Trott says so. And they keep 
squirrels in the stores, all with white aprons and 
caps on, to crack nuts for customers. Peter 
Trott says so." 

" They aint so nice as my mice and my squirrel, 
anyway, and Grandpa says not to b'lieve Peter 
Trott, 'cause he tells wicked, wrong stories ! " cried 
little Darius, almost moved to tears at the possi- 
bility that any mice or any squirrels were more 
attractive than his. " I should n't think you 'd want 
to show an)' city girl your old Dinah. She was 
homely enough before Grandpa sat on her and flat- 
tened her all out ; she 's orflc now ! " 



Lucy Ann might have resented this, for she was 
very fond of Dinah, and thought her a beauty in 
spite of the accident that had befallen her, — which 
was a very cruel one, for Grandpa weighed over two 
hundred pounds, — but just then the carriage drove 
up, and a little girl was lifted out by Peter Trott, 
and set down inside the door. 

There was Mabel Hortense, bangs and doll and 
all, just as she looked in the photograph, only that 
both she and the doll had on traveling costumes, 
so there was not so much jewelry to be seen. 

She did not look in the least like a Damsonfield 
little girl, nor the doll like a Damsonfield doll. 
The doll wore a suit trimmed with fur, just like 
her mamma's, and it fitted her just as nicely. 
(Becky could only make a doll's dress like a 
sacque, with slits for the arms, and Aunt Eunice 
did n't think it was worth the while to make dolls' 
dresses at all.) And she had on the daintiest gloves 
and boots imaginable, without a wrinkle in them. 
Gloves and boots were entirely unknown in doll 
society in Damsonfield. 

For one moment Lucy Ann felt ashamed of 
Dinah, but she gave her an extra hug the next 
moment to make up for it. 

Becky was glad that she had on Hannah Olive 
Judson's blue beads, and that Lucy Ann had on 
brand-new shoes, for Lucy Ann's toes were almost 
always threatening to stick out through her shoes, 
and she did hope that Solomon would n't tell that 
the beads were borrowed ; that would be just like 
Solomon, and she wished she had thought to warn 
him about it when Aunt Eunice was cautioning 
him not to tell that they had borrowed the sugar- 
tongs of Aunt Jemima, and that they did n't always 
have two kinds of preserves for supper. 

The first thing that Mabel Hortense seemed to 
notice was Dinah. 

"Oh, what a perfectly beautiful doll!" she ex- 
claimed. " She is truly colored, is n't she?" 

" She was born so," said Lucy Ann, proudly 
displaying the raveled-yarn wool, which was 
Dinah's strong point in the way of looks. 

" I don't think I ever saw a colored doll before ! 
You will give her to me, wont you ? " 

Lucy Ann was very much surprised, and did n't 
know what to say. Becky gave her a little poke 
with her elbow. Aunt Eunice had said they must 
do everything that their city cousin asked them to 
do, and Becky thought Lucy Ann ought to give 
Dinah to her ; but Dinah was n't Becky's, and she 
did n't know how it felt to part with her. 

"To keep? "said Lucy Ann, falteringly, after 
Becky had given her a second poke. 

"Oh, of course ! 1 shall carry her home," said 
Mabel Hortense. 

"Will you "give me yours for her?" said Lucy. 

" Oh, no ; I want them both ! " said Mabel Hor- 
tense, decidedly. 

And taking Dinah out of Lucy Ann's arms — by 
her wool — she thrust her under one arm and her 
own doll under the other, and followed her mother 
into the sitting-room. Lucy Ann's tears began 
to flow, but Becky whispered : 

• ' I suppose that 's the way city people do. You 
must n't cry." 

Mabel Hortense seated herself on a stool before 
the fire, and immediately picked up the three 
kittens, dropping a doll on each side- of her. 

" I like kittens. I shall take these home with 
me," she said. 

Lucy Ann received a warning look from Becky, 
but she felt that, when it came to carrying off kit- 
tens, the ways of city people could not be endured, 
and she said, firmly: "The Maltese one, with the 
very peaked tail, is Becky's, and the black one with 
a spot on his nose is Solomon's, and the little, white, 
fuzziest one is mine, and Priscilla herself belongs 
to Jonah." 

Little Darius at this moment thrust his cage of 
white mice and his scjuirrel before Mabel Hortense's 
eyes, and she dropped the kittens. 

" Oh, what funny little things ! And the squirrel, 
with his tail the most of him, is too sweet ! I shall 
carry them all home with me." 

Even Becky began to doubt whether she should 
like city ways. Lucy Ann's eyes and mouth grew 
into round O's with astonishment, and little Darius 
set up such a howl that Aunt Eunice forthwith 
shut him up in the china-closet. 

" I am afraid these children are not very 
obliging," remarked Mabel's mother. " Mabel 
Hortense has always been accustomed to- have 
everything she wants." 

Lucy Ann drew Becky into the hall, and shut 
the door. " We must n't let her see the play-house, 
nor my tea-set, nor Solomon's soldiers, nor little 
Darius's elephant, nor anything. I think we 'd 
better carry them all up to the attic closet and lock 
the door ! " she exclaimed. 

Becky thought so, too, and they hurriedly col- 
lected all their playthings, and hustled them into 
the attic closet, and locked the door securely. 
Becky even took off Hannah Olive Judson's blue 
beads and left them there. It would be so dread- 
ful if Mabel Hortense should decide to carry those 
home with her ! 

But Becky's conscience troubled her a little as 
she went back to the sitting-room, for Aunt Eunice 
had said they must be hospitable, and do every- 
thing they could to make Mabel Hortense have a 
good time. Becky resolved that she would not re- 
fuse to do anything that Mabel Hortense wanted 
her to do. 




As she reentered the sitting-room, Solomon was 
entertaining Mabel Hortense. 

" I have my old clothes on, because I 'm a boy 
and don't care, but you ought to see how the others 
have been fixing up, all in their Sunday things, 
and Becky borrowed Hannah Olive Judson's beads. 
Say, are the sidewalks all made of gingerbread in 
the city? Peter Trott says so." 

" No," said Mabel Hortense, slowly and reflect- 
ively. " They are made of pound-cakes." 

" True as you live ? " said Solomon. " I thought 
it was only one of Peter Trott's yarns. And are 
the houses made of molasses candy?" 

" Oh, no, only some of the poor people's houses ; 
ours is made of ice-cream." 

" I should think it would melt ! " exclaimed 

"It does n't, but sometimes we eat it up, and 
build ourselves another," said Mabel Hortense. 

Becky looked at her. It was a feeble imitation 
of the way in which Aunt Eunice looked at Lucy 
Ann and her when they misbehaved in church. 

" I am afraid you tell very wrong stories," she 
said, severely. " People could n't possibly live in 
houses made of ice-cream." 

Mabel Hortense blushed very red, and cast down 
her eyes. But then she answered, snappishly : 

" Well, who ever s'posed he would believe it ! 
Such a big boy ! I never saw one so silly ! " 

It was not the first time that Solomon had been 
told he was silly, but coming from a girl who lived 
in the city it was especially cutting. 

Solomon made a resolve then and there that he 
would " get even " with Mabel Hortense. 

"Do you like Thanksgiving Day?" asked 
Becky, politely. She was afraid she had spoken 
rather severely to Mabel Hortense, and was trying 
to make amends for it. 

" Not so very much," said Mabel Hortense. 
" I like to see the stained glass in church make 
the people's noses look red and yellow, and then 
there 's the dinner, but that 's disappointing, be- 
cause one can't have all the plums." 

Becky and Solomon and Lucy Ann looked as- 
tonished and inquiring. 

" In the pudding, you know. I don't care 
anything about the dinner, except the pudding, 
and 1 don't care anything about the pudding, except 
the plums. Mamma gives me hers, and Grandpa 
gives me his, but other people are so selfish. They 
eat their own plums. Could n't you manage, to- 
morrow, so that I could have all the plums ? " 

Solomon and Lucy Ann looked at each other in 
silent astonishment. Lucy Ann was very fond of 
plums, but it never had occurred to her that she 
could, by any possibility, have more than her 
share. Solomon was particularly fond of plums. 

and had been known to imitate on the sly the 
example of little Jacky Horner, but he had never 
wanted to eat all the plums out of a Thanksgiving 
plum-pudding. Mabel Hortense seemed to him 
almost as wonderful as the hen that Mother Goose 
was acquainted with, that 

" Ate a cow and ate a calf, 
Ate a butcher and a half, 
Ate a church and ate a steeple, 
Ate the priest and all the people! " 

'• I will ask Aunt Eunice to give you a very 
plummy piece, but I don't see how you could have 
all the plums," said Becky, seriously. 

Solomon was thinking. An idea had suddenly 
popped into his mind that here was a chance for 
mischief. Solomon loved mischief. And there 
might be also a chance to "pay up" Mabel Hor- 
tense, who had laughed at him and called him silly. 

"Oh, I think we could manage it," said he. 
" Roxy Jane always bakes the pudding the day 
before Thanksgiving, because on Thanksgiving Day 
the oven is filled with the turkey and chickens 
and things, and then she warms it up or serves it 
with a hot sauce. The pudding is in the pantry 
this very minute; I 've seen it." 

"Well, what if it is? "asked Becky. 

" We might slip into the pantry when nobody 
was looking, and carry it off and hide it some- 
where, — out in the barn, on the hay-mow, would 
be a good place, — and to-morrow we could eat it 
and have all the plums ! " 

"Why, of course! That is just as easy ! And 
you 're a very nice boy to think of it. I '11 never 
call you silly again. Of course, you '11 give me all 
the plums," said Mabel Hortense. 

"It would be very wrong ! What would Aunt 
Eunice say ? Why, Solomon, when last Sunday 
was your birthday, and you said you were surely 
going to be good a week! " 

•' I did n't know then that I was going to have 
company from the city," said Solomon. "And it 
is n't any harm, anyway. There '11 be plenty for 
dinner, without the pudding — maybe 't would make 
some of them sick to eat it ; and Aunt Eunice will 
never find out what became of it." 

" I don't think it 's nice of you to say it would 
be wrong, when I 'm your company. People ought 
to do everything that company wants." 

"Aunt Eunice said we must do everything that 
Mabel Hortense wants us to," urged Solomon. 

"Yes, so she did," said Becky, rather faintly, 
"but " 

"It does n't make any difference whether you help 
or not, we 're going to do it," said Solomon. "And 
now, too, for they 're all talking and wont notice 
where we go, and Roxy Jane is setting the table, 
and can't see us go to the pantry." 



Lucy Ann skipped along with Solomon and 
Mabel Hortense, not minding in the least that 
Becky looked reprovingly at her. 

After a little hesitation, Becky arose and followed 
them. She might as well see what they were going 
to do, she thought. 

There was the Thanksgiving plum-pudding, in 
a great, yellow earthen baking-dish, on the pantry 
shelf, rich and toothsome and sweet-smelling. 

" I was going to take the pudding-bag to put it 
in, but it is n't big enough for such a whacker of 
a pudding, and the clothes-pin bag is n't clean 
enough. Becky, you go to the clothes-press 
and get a clean pillow-case ! We can slip it into 
the wash-tub Monday morning, and nobody will 

Becky went. Since they were going to do it, 
anyway, she might as well join them, she said to 
herself. Perhaps it was n't polite to refuse company. 
And it was going to be great fun ! 

Solomon slipped a knife around the edge of the 
pudding, to separate it from the dish, as he had 
seen Roxy Jane do, and put it into the pillow- 
case. Then they all stole softly out through the 
long wood-shed to the barn, Solomon, with the 
pudding slung over his shoulder, leading the way. 

Solomon looked cautiously around, to be sure 
that Peter Trott was not in the barn. Peter was 
not a tell-tale, but he had a sweet tooth, and it was 
just as well to be on the safe side. 

There was not a sound to be heard as they 
entered the barn, and both Solomon and Becky soon 
forgot everything except that they were having 
great fun. 

They deposited the pudding in its pillow-case 
bag in a bed of hay, covering it carefully so that 
scarcely a glimpse of the white cloth was to be 
seen. It was hardly done when Roxy Jane rang 
the supper-bell vigorously. 

" Now we shall all have to go to church in 
the morning," said Solomon, as they hurried into 
the house, " but the very first thing after we come 
home we '11 go up on to the hay-mow and eat the 

One who was watching Solomon closely might 
have seen a twinkle in his eye, when he said that, 
which meant mischief deeper than any of his com- 
panions in the pudding enterprise suspected. 

For it would n't be paying up Mabel Hortense 
to let her eat all the plums. Oh, no, indeed ! 

At five o'clock the next morning, Solomon arose 
from his bed softly, that he might not awake 
Jonah, who, was sleeping beside him, dressed him- 
self in great haste, and stole down-stairs. He had 
meant to be up at four o'clock, but, unfortunately, 
had failed to awake. It was quite important for the 
accomplishment of his purpose that he should get 

to the barn before Peter Trott did, and Peter Trott 
was a very early bird. 

The large lantern which Peter used was not 
hanging in its accustomed place, but that was not 
a sure sign that Peter had gone to the barn, be- 
cause he was not very orderly and might have left 
it somewhere else. 

Solomon lighted the small lantern, and tiptoed 
softly, listening intently, all the way through the 
wood-shed, which had never seemed so long nor so 
dark. There was no sign of Peter Trott's lantern, 
and Solomon came to the conclusion that Peter's 
alarm-clock had not yet gone off. 

An industrious hen, who had been laying an egg 
at this unseasonable hour, flew off her nest with 
loud cackling, and startled Solomon so that he 
almost dropped his lantern into the hay. Perhaps 
she meant to lay more than one egg that day, 
because it was Thanksgiving Day, but Solomon 
thought she might have waited until daylight. 

Her nest seemed to be very near the place where 
they had hidden the pudding. Solomon hoped 
that she had n't been having a peck at the plums. 
He meant to have all those plums for his own 
private refreshment. He would never have thought 
of it if Mabel Hortense had not suggested it, and 
he did not want to eat them all at once, but he 
thought it would be a very good plan to hide the 
pudding where nobody but himself could find it, 
and have a private nibble whenever he liked. 

But the best of it was that he should be more 
than even with Mabel Hortense. Instead of having 
all the plums, she would n't have any of them. 
And would n't the girls all be surprised when they 
came, after church, to the place where the pudding 
had been hidden and found it gone ? And should 
n't he have to pretend to be surprised ? Solomon 
chuckled to himself, thinking of it. 

By this time he had come to the place where he 
had put the pudding. He put his hand down to 
pull up the bag, but, lo and behold ! there was only 
a deep hole where the pudding had lain. 

The pudding had vanished, bag and all ! 

Solomon's first thought was that it must be 
magic — some fairy had spirited it away, to punish 
him for his misdeeds. But when his knees had 
stopped shaking, he thought of Peter Trott. 

Peter wore soft shoes, and was always near when 
one did not suspect it, and he was very fond of 
goodies. He might like all the plums as well as 
Mabel Hortense. Just at that moment he heard 
the noise of the hay-cutter at the farther end of the 
barn, and a ray of light from Peter Trott's lantern 
was cast upon the barn-floor. 

" Peter, Peter, what have you done with the 
plum-pudding?" cried Solomon, angrily. 

" Sakes alive ! Is that you up on the hay-mow? 




Do you want to scare a fellow to death ? " said 
Peter, in a shaking voice. "What are you doin' 
up there at this time in the morning ? " 

" I 'm not so early but what you 've been before 
me, and carried off my plum-pudding, or else eaten 
it up ! " said Solomon, almost in tears. 

" Plum-puddin' ! Plum-puddin' ! You aint 
dreamin' or walkin' in your sleep, are you? It's 
Thanksgivin' Day, sure enough, and it 's likely 
there '11 be a plum-puddin' along about dinner 
time, good and spicy, and chock full of plums, but 
it 's too early in the morning to talk about it now. 
I 'm a master hand for plum-puddin', myself, but 
I should n't consider it wholesome before break- 
fast ! " 

" I hid the plum-pudding, in a pillow-case, up 
on this hay-mow, and it 's gone ! " said Solomon, 
" and nobody has been here but you." 

"Hid a plum-puddin' up in the hay? That's 
cur'us ! " exclaimed Peter Trott, in a tone of great 
astonishment. " And it 's gone ? — that 's cur'user 
/ still ! But, now I think of it, that yaller-speckled 
hen was makin' a great fuss up there, and she 's 
a master hand for victuals, that hen is, and she 's 
got a terrible big swallow. Why, I see her swallow 
a pumpkin the other day and make no more of 
it than she would of a pea ! " 

" 1 sha' n't believe any more of your stories, 
Peter Trott ! " cried Solomon. " I got called silly 
by doing it, and Grandpa says not to." 

Peter looked very sad. 

" Well, I s'pose I have got kind of an unfort'nit 
habit of stretchin' the truth a little. It kind of 
seems to come nateral. But I 'm a-breakin' my- 
self of it fast. Now I come to think of it, it wa' n't 
a pumpkin but a squash, and not more 'n a middlin' 
sized one, that I see that hen swallow. And it a'nt 
likely that she swallowed the puddin', on account 
of the bag; that would have stuck in her throat, 
certain sure." 

" You have done something with that pudding," 
insisted Solomon, hotly. 

" Well, now, I did toss some hay off that mow 
into Dandy Jim's stall. You don't s'pose the 
puddin' could have caught on the pitchfork, do 
you ? Dandy Jim would n't have eaten the bag, 
anyhow, bein' dretful pertikler about his victuals, 
so it 's easy enough to find out." 

And Peter Trott, in a very eager and interested 
manner, went into Dandy Jim's stall, and searched 
about. Solomon followed him, with his lantern, 
and looked carefully all over the stall. But no 
traces of either pudding or bag were to be found, 
and Dandy Jim, after the closest inspection, did 
not seem to be suffering from indigestion, as Sol- 
omon thought he certainly would be if he had 
eaten the pudding-bag. 

Peter Trott certainly looked very innocent, but 
Solomon had by no means lost his suspicions that 
he knew more about the disappearance of the pud- 
ding than he chose to tell. But to show anger 
toward him would never bring Peter to confession. 
So Solomon began to plead with him : 

" Peter, please don't tease me. P-1-eas-e tell me 
all about it." 

Peter thrust both hands into his trousers pockets, 
and looked very benevolent. 

" Well, now, I have been jokin' a little, that's a 
fact, but I don't want to hurt your feelin's. But as 
for that puddin', all I can say is that I saw a tramp 
eatin' somethin' out in the barn-yard last night, 
an' it may 'a' been that puddin'. I can't say 
certain that it was the puddin', but he was a-eatin' 
ez if he enjoyed it mighty well. He was sittin' 
kind of doubled up in that bushel-basket, with his 
legs kind of danglin', and he had a cloth tucked 
under his chin for a napkin. Of course, I did n't 
know how he come by it. I did n't once think 
that it might be our Thanksgivin' puddin'. I did 
think about orderin' him off, but he had such a 
queer look in his eye that I felt like givin' him a 
wide berth, and I let him alone. Judgin' from 
what you tell me, I 'm afraid your puddin' 's gone 
for good. But I can't say for certain." 

Solomon felt satisfied that Peter was telling the 
truth, now. Tramps were plenty in the neighbor- 
hood, and, only the day before, he himself had 
seen just such an one as Peter described, resting 
under a tree. And Peter was always careless 
about the barn door. 

Now that the pudding was gone, Solomon began 
to think anxiously of the probability of being found 
out. While there was a great deal of fun to be ex- 
pected with the pudding, that probability had kept 
in the background of his mind, but now it loomed 
out fearfully. Aunt Eunice would be sure to make 
a strict investigation as soon as she knew that the 
pudding was gone, and Aunt Eunice could always 
find out things. Sometimes her finding out seemed 
really marvelous, and she said that a little bird told 
her. Jonah said she was only joking, and Becky 
did n't really believe it, but Solomon was inclined 
to think it was true. Solomon thought, now that 
he came to consider the matter, that anybody 
who had stolen the Thanksgiving plum-pudding 
wouldn't be " let off very easy." He deliberated 
whether he should throw the blame upon Mabel 
Hortense or not. It seemed rather mean to tell 
of a girl, but, " anyway, he should n't have thought 
of it, if it had n't been for her." 

The Thanksgiving sermon had always seemed 
endless to Solomon, but on this day it was actually 
too short ; anything was better than having dinner- 
time come. 



As soon as they reached home, Mabel Hortense 
• and Lucy Ann came to him and whispered : 

" Now we will go to the barn and have the pud- 
ding, wont we ?" 

Becky stood in the background, looking pale 
and sad. The truth was, Becky's conscience had 
been making her very unhappy. 

" The pudding 's gone," said Solomon, gloomily. 

"Gone! Where ?" exclaimed Mabel Hortense, 
Becky, and Lucy Ann, in a breath. 

■' Eaten up ! " said Solomon. 

"What! plums and all?" exclaimed Mabel 
Hortense, the corners of her mouth beginning 
to droop. "Who did such a cruel, wicked thing?" 

" A tramp. He ate the pudding — plums and all." 

" Oh, what a greedy thing, to eat all the plums ! 
I wanted them myself," said Mabel Hortense. 

" We have n't had a bit of fun. And what will 
Aunt Eunice say?" said Becky. 

"Girls are always getting a fellow into trouble ! " 
said Solomon, savagely. 

The children showed a surprising lack of eager- 
ness in obeying the summons to dinner, all except 
little Darius, who did not feel guilty, and still ex- 
pected plum-pudding. 

Solomon had a very small appetite for turkey, 
and Becky could scarcely force down a mouthful. 

Solomon felt, when they were waiting for des- 
sert to be brought in, that it was one of the most 
awful moments of his life, and Becky watched the 
door with a frightened and fascinated gaze. 

But what did their eyes behold ! Roxy Jane, 
with beaming face, bearing aloft a huge platter, 
on which reposed a great, rich-brown, plummy- 
looking pudding ! It looked exactly like the pud- 
ding they had stolen, and Roxy Jane said, in 
answer to a compliment upon the looks of her 
pudding, that "it got a splendid bake. She never 
knew one to slip out of the dish so easily." 

It was placed on Solomon's end of the table, and 
he bent over and examined it critically. A tiny 
wisp of hay was clinging to its side. Solomon 
picked it off slyly and showed it to Becky. 

"Grandpa, don't ever send Peter Trott away, 
for he 's a good fellow ! " said Solomon, eagerly. 

And all the grown people wondered why the 
plum-pudding made him think of that. • 

'" I want all the plums ! " said Mabel Hortense. 

But nobody paid any attention to her, and she 
had only her share. 






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4 8 



By J. T. Trowbridge. 

'can you show me dempford street?" 

Chapter I. 


gish water, he addressed a flagman who was com- 
ing along the platform. 

" Can you show me Dempford street ? " 
" First street to the left," was the ready answer, 
A YOUNG fellow, about seventeen years old, — a illustrated by a motion of the flag rolled up on its 
mere boy, in fact, with a rather solid-looking but stick. 

fresh and pleasant face, — stepped from a train at " Does that take me to the river?" 
the Tammoset station, one March afternoon, and "Straight to the river — straight to Dempford 
looked about him with the air of a stranger. bridge." 

After a brief survey of the plashy village streets, " And Mr. Dushee's place ? " 

bordered with gutters half full of snow and slug- " Oh, Dushee's ! " said the flagman. "That 's a 

* Copyright, 1882, by J. T. Trowbridge. All rights reserved. 




little off the main track. Turn to your right, just 
before you get to the bridge, and keep down the 
river a few rods, till you see an old mill." 

" That 's just what I want to see," the boy re- 
plied, with a look of satisfaction. " Much obliged." 

Picking his way along the muddy sidewalks, he 
passed beyond the village, and in a few minutes 
came to the brow of a hill, where he paused. 

Below was the river, sweeping, full-banked and 
strong, across the foreground of a brown land- 
scape, mottled with dingy patches of snow-drifts. 
On the left, not very far away, was a large pond 
or lake, still ice-bound, except near the mouth, out 
of which the dark current flowed. There were 
orchards and groves, and pleasant residences here 
and there, on the far-winding shores. 

"That must be fine in summer," he said to 
himself, with a smile. "We '11 keep a boat and 
go a-fishing, and have some jolly sails — if the 
chickens I 'm counting will only'hatch. Wont it 
be nice to take Mother out, and row with her along 
by those woods, just after sunset? — if she will 
only agree to my plans. And Letty, wont she like 
it! But I know it can't be; it 's all too good to 
come true." 

And yet there was a look on his face which said 
that it should come true, if the determined will 
and good wit of a boy of his size could accomplish 

The river flowed beneath the bridge at the foot of 
the slope, and, making a curve to the right, soon 
disappeared under the hill, which terminated there 
in a low bluff. On the summit of that was an old- 
fashioned house, and just beyond, through the 
bare boughs of a large willow-tree, appeared a 
brown roof. 

" That must be the mill," he exclaimed, starting 
to walk toward it. 

, Descending the bluff, he took a foot-path along 
the river's brink, amidst a scene picturesque enough 
even at that season of the year. 

On his right was the bluff, or high bank, to the 
steep side of which heavy snow-drifts still clung. 
On his left, the whirling stream rushed on toward 
a low dam, over which it broke with a sound that 
was music to his ears. The mossy turf of the path 
he trod was supported by the roots of willow-trees 
that overleaned the water, in the largest of which — 
an immense pollard, with stout branches — seats 
were framed, with a little foot-bridge of plank lead- 
ing to them from the top of the bank. 

" What a place for Mother to sit and sew, in 
pleasant weather ! " he said to himself, with ever- 
kindling enthusiasm. " We '11 put a little railing 
along by the plank, and we can help her over 
safely. It beats all the bay-windows in the world ! 
Right over the water, and up among the birds ! " 
Vol. X.— 4. 

A pair of those early comers, the blue-birds, 
were there already, flitting in the boughs, their 
beautiful plumage and richly warbled notes hinting 
of the delights of the season of leaves and flowers 
now so near at hand. 

But, while taking in with keen interest so many 
things, the eye of the boy did not neglect the prin- 
cipal object of his visit. 

That rose before him, at the end of the path, 
close by the great willow — a little, old, brown 
two-story building, built partly over the water, at 
the end of the dam, and partly against the high 

A door at the end of the path opened into a shed- 
like wing, where his eye was delighted with the 
sight of a forge, with its great bellows. 

" This is what the boys will like ! " he said, with 
a nod and a smile. " And there is the water-wheel ! 
I wonder why it is n't going. I believe the place 
is deserted." 

He peeped through an open door-way, leading 
from the shed into the lower story of the mill, and 
saw on one side a long work-bench, with lathes, a 
circular saw beyond, wheels and boards overhead, 
and all sorts of odd litter scattered about the room. 

Nothing very attractive, you would have said ; 
and yet the sight filled the boyish visitor with mild 

" Everthing is lovely, so far ! But I must n't ap- 
pear too well pleased. There 's somebody." 

The roof of the shed formed a walk from the 
upper story of the mill to *the top of the bank. 
Footsteps were heard on the boards overhead, and 
presently a chubby-faced boy appeared beyond, de- 
scending a path through the slushy snow. 

" I 've come to look at your mill," said Boy Num- 
ber One, carelessly. 

"Wall, ye can look — don't cost nothin'," said 
Boy Number Two, with a grin. 

" It 's a dilapidated old shell," remarked Num- 
ber One. 

" Wall, kind o'," said Number Two," though she 
aint so old as she looks. She never had no coat 
of paint ; that 's what 's the matter." 

" I should think so," said Number One. " Is the 
water-power good for anything? " 

" Good for anything ! " echoed Number Two, as 
he went and stood by Number One, and watched 
the current rushing by the undershot wheel. 
" There 's power enough." 

" Why is n't somebody using it, then ? " 

" Well, we might ; tide is going out strong now." 

" You are dependent on the tide, are you ? " 

"Of course," said Number Two. " Don't you 
know ? It 's a tide-mill." 

" I 'm not much acquainted with tide-mills," 
Number One replied. " Explain it to me." 




" This is the Tammoset River, " said Number Two, 
" though some folks call it the Dempford River. It 
runs between two towns. This is Tammoset on 
this side, and that is Dempford over there." 

" And what 's the name of the lake ? " 

" That 's got more names than a poor man has 
shirts," grinned Boy "Number Two. " Some folks 
call it Tammoset Lake, and some Dempford Lake ; 
but 'most generally they say jest the lake, or the 

" Do you mean to say that the tide flows all the 
way up here, from the harbor? " 

" Course I do ! Why not? It 's only about seven 
miles, and there 's scarce any fall to the water." 

" Is the water of the lake salt or fresh ? " asked 
the strange boy. 

" Fresh, of course," the Tammoset boy replied. 
" No salt water ever gits up as fur as here, without 
't is in a very dry time. They do say the water in 
the bottom of the pond is a leetle mite brackish ; 
though I don't know how anybody knows." 

"I see," remarked the visitor, who was not 
quite so ignorant as he had been willing to appear. 
" When the tide comes in, it forces back the flow 
of fresh water ; but it turns again before it gets up 
as far as here. Salt water being heavier than fresh, 
any that gets into the lake would stay at the 

While they were talking, there came a sudden 
rush of water under the wheel, which began to 
move, slowly at first, then with a brisk rush of the 
revolving paddles. 

"There she goes!" said the Tammoset boy. 
" I told you 't was about time for her to begin to 
hum. Do you want to see Father ? " 

" Is Mr. Dushee your father ? " 

" Yes, and he owns the mill; and he wants to 
sell it. Do you know of anybody who wants to 

The Tammoset boy spoke so eagerly that the 
boy who really wanted to buy thought it best to 
appear more indifferent than ever. 

" I 'd like to see him by and by. Why does he 
want to sell ?" 

" Oh, I d'n' know ! Tired on 't, I s'pose. Wants 
to git into some other kind o' business, where he 
wont have to w-ork so hard." 

" That 's natural," said the visitor. " Show me 
how you take advantage of the tide." 

The boy who belonged to the place led the way 
to a platform over the end of the dam, and pointed 
out a broad opening in it, stopped by movable 
boards, over which the water poured. 

" Them 's the Jlas/i-kmrds" he explained. 
" When the tide runs up they float, and let it go up 
into the pond. Those ropes keep 'em from float- 
ing away. After the tide turns, and we want the 

power, all we Ye got to do is to put down the 
flash-boards. Soon 's the water has fell away a 
leetle from the lower side, we 've got about as 
smart a water-power, till tide comes up again, as 
ever ye need to have, for a small, perty business, 
ye know. Two tides a day, understand." 

"Only, one of them 's apt to be in the night," 
replied the visitor, with a laugh. "Do you own 
any land on the other side ? " 

" No need of that," said the mill-boy. " Father 
jest bought the right of the owner to build his 
dam and keep it there ninety-nine years. I don't 
know why they did n't say a hundred, while the)' 
was about it." 

" Ninety-nine seems long enough for all practi- 
cal purposes," said the visitor, hardly able to con- 
ceal his delight at the general aspect of things. 
"What 's the price of the old trap, anyway?" 

' ' I don't know what the price is ; but Father says 
he means to. sell for what he can git," said young 
Dushee, innocently. 

" Oh, does he ?" thought the visitor, with secret 
glee — not that he was at all anxious to obtain the 
property for less than it was worth, but that, hav- 
ing already set his heart on it, he earnestly hoped 
that the price would come within the means at his 

Chapter II. 


A large-faced, sandy-complexioned man was 
at work before a lathe when the two boys entered 
the shop. He was turning what promised to be a 
croquet-ball, making the fine chips fly, and the 
round, ragged-looking block hum. 

As. the mill-boy had just such another flabby- 
cheeked, sandy countenance, laid out on a smaller 
scale, the visitor did not need to be told that he 
was in the presence of the elder Dushee. 

He watched the operation of turning with lively 
interest, while the son spoke to his father, and 
tried to attract his attention. But the elder Dushee, 
having noticed by a glance that it was only another 
boy who had come in with his boy, kept steadily 
at his work, with no more expression in the exten- 
sive features than if they had been composed of 
the sand they so much resembled. 

After a while he paused in his cutting to apply 
the curved arms of a measure to his revolving 
ball. Then the son tried again. 

" Here 's somebody to look at the mill. Guess 
he wants to buy ! " 

Instantly a gleam of sunshine lighted up the 
Sahara-like countenance — a smile, in other wordr 
— which was turned hospitably on the youthful 



" Come to look at the mill, have ye ? " Scanning 
him closely, and seeing what a mere boy he was, 
the man added: "But I don't s'pose you want to 
buy? " 

" No, I don't," said the visitor. 

The sunshine faded from the desert. 

" But I know parties who may wish to purchase," 
he continued, "and I have come to examine and 

"Oh! all right." The sandy waste lighted up 
again. " I '11 show you what we 've got here." 

" Don't leave your work," said the visitor. 

" That can wait. I happened to get hold of 
some good apple-tree wood, and I thought I would 
turn a few croquet sets," Mr. Dushee explained. 
" Who are the parties you speak of? " 

" Well, my brothers and myself. There are five 
of us altogether. I am the third. Our name is 

"The Tinkham boys! I have heard of the 
Tinkham boys ! " Mr. Dushee exclaimed. "And, 
by George ! I owe 'em a grudge, too ! " 

" I am sorry for that," replied young Tinkham, 

"Yes, sir," said Mr. Dushee, good-naturedly, 
notwithstanding his grudge. " I was making a 
very nice doll's carriage for Mellen & Company ; 
they sold all I could turn out. But all to once 
they said : ' Mr. Dushee, we can't take any more 
of them carriages at that price.' 'What's up?' 
says I. Says they, ' We have to retail your car- 
riage at three dollars ; but here 's some, jest about 
as good, — better, too, in some respects, — that we 
can sell for two.' 'Whose carriages be them?' 
says I, and I '11 own that they was mighty cute 
little things ! By two or. three ingenious tricks, 
the inventors had managed to make a cheaper 
article than mine, while it was quite as perty, — 
mebby pettier, — and nigh-about as strong." 

The visitor smiled quietly, while Mr. Dushee 
went on. 

" 'Whose make be them?' says I. ' The Tink- 
ham boys',' says they. ' Who 's the Tinkham 
boys ? ' says I. ' The Widder Tinkham's,' says they. 
'That 's about all we know of 'em — only that 
they 've got long heads on their shoulders, and can 
make dolls' carriages cheaper 'n you can.' 'Very 
well,' says I; 'let 'em make 'em!' But I tell 
ye I was mad ! " 

" That little carriage was my brother Luther's 
notion," said the Tinkham boy present. " He 's 
only nineteen, but he 's full of ideas, and can do 
almost anything he sets out to. He did n't set out to 
undersell you, Mr. Dushee, or to injure your busi- 
ness ; but he saw there might be improvements 
made in dolls' carriages, and it appears that he 
succeeded in making them." 

" Oh, that 's all right ! " Mr. Dushee s;>id. 
" Where 's your shop ? " 

" We have n't any shop of our own," the Tink- 
ham boy answered, frankly, "and we are looking 
about for one. That is, I saw your advertisement, 
and thought perhaps your tide-mill would suit our 

"Should n't wonder if it would!" said the 
proprietor, gleefully; " should n't wonder a mite ! 
Where have you done your work?" 

" At home, and in our Uncle Dave Darrill's 
saw-mill. My older brothers, Luther and Martin, 
began to make things for their own amusement 
while they were going to school. Then, when 
Father died, and they had to go to work, they 
thought they would put some of their toys and 
knickknacks on the market. A few sold pretty 
well, and that encouraged them to invent more. 
They have made a good many of their own tools, 
and contrived the machinery they have put up in 
Uncle's mill. I am not much of an inventor, my- 
self," the Tinkham boy went on, "but I am a 
tolerably good workman, and I believe I 've a head 
for business." 

" I should think you had ! " said Mr. Dushee, 
with increasing good humor. 

"I don't want to be separated from my brothers ; 
I want to keep the family together," the represent- 
ative of the Tinkhams went on, with a swell of 
emotion in his tones. " I have two younger broth- 
ers, still at school, and one sister. My mother fell 
and broke her knee on a bad place in the side- 
walk, just after Father died, and she is a cripple. 
We want to keep her with us." 

"A good idee! a good idee!" Mr. Dushee ex- 
claimed, the sunshine of his smile expanding until 
it seemed to spread all over the continent of his 
person, and put him into a universal glow. 

"The time has come when the boys ought to 
have a shop of their own, with a little elbow-room 
and water-power. I want to keep with them, and 
learn to be the business man of the concern. Then 
our younger brothers can work into it. That 's 
my plan, and that 's why I have come " 

Suddenly, seeming to recollect himself, the vis- 
itor hesitated. He had set out to be very diplo- 
matic, and here he was telling the honest truth and 
exposing his secret motives without any caution 
whatever. Indeed, it was not in Rush Tinkham's 
frank and impulsive nature to use much reserve 
and finesse, however needful he might think them 
in advancing his personal interests ; but he in- 
stinctively broke through them, and stood on the 
solid and enduring ground of sincerity. 

"You 've come to jest the right place," Mr. 
Dushee made haste to assure him. " This is jest 
the mill you want ! " showing his visitor about the 




little factory. " Everything in perfect repair, shab- 
by as things look. Good water-power, good ma- 
chinery, plenty of room. Come upstairs." 

Rush Tinkham felt sure that his brothers would 
be delighted with what he saw But he said dis- 
creetly : 

" I should n't wonder if it would suit us. Now, 
about the price. Put your figures right down to 
the lowest point ; then, if we can reach up to 
them, I '11 try to have my brothers come out and 
see the property." 

" You ought to buy the whole place," said the 
owner; " good house, an acre of land, garden, and 

''I should like that, if we can afford it," said 
Rush ; thinking, " We '11 keep a horse, and give 
Mother such nice rides! " 

Mr. Dushee then showed him the house and 
grounds, the boy's keen eyes taking in everything, 
while he often said to himself: " Mother will like 
this ; wont Mother take comfort in that ! " for, 
though simple and plain, everything was spacious 
and comfortable, compared with the narrow quar- 
ters which the family occupied in the city. 

"Nice place, aint it?" said the proprietor, with 
his most expansive smile, as they returned to the 

" I like it," Rush replied, frankly; " and I am 
surprised that you should want to part with it." 

" I don't want to," said Mr. Dushee. " But, if I 
sell the mill, I don't care to keep the house. And 
I want to sell the mill because the Tinkham boys 
cut under me, and make dolls' carriages cheaper 'n 
1 can." 

He laughed. Rush laughed too, and said : 

" There 's no other reason ? " 

"That 's the principal reason. My ways are 
ruther old-fashioned, and I can't get out of the 
ruts ; I can't compete with younger men with their 
modern improvements." 

"Your water-power is all right ? " Rush inquired. 

The owner grinned. Young Dushee also grinned, 
with a curious expression, as he stood and listened 
to the conversation and watched his father's face. 

" It ought to be ; I 've used it nigh on to fifteen 
year. I 've never seen the time," the elder Du- 
shee added, "when I could n't depend on eight 
hours, in every twelve, of good running power. 
Each tide is about two'hours coming up. In about 
two hours more it will be running down fast enough 
for the wheel. Then we have eight hours, as I 
say, before the water sets back again. In the 
driest time, when fresh water fails and a good 
many mills have to stop, the tide keeps up the 
supply here." 

"You 've a right to dam the stream?" said 
Rush, looking out on the river from a window. 

" A perfect right," the elder Dushee declared, 
rather earnestly, while the younger watched his 
face with the same curious grin which Rush would 
have done well to observe. " It don't injure no- 
body. It keeps the level of the lake stiddier 'n 
it would be without it, and that 's ruther an ad- 
vantage to land-owners than otherwise." 

" I should think it might be in the way of boats," 
Rush suggested. 

There was a sort of sunset flush on the sandy 
desert of a face, as the proprietor answered stoutly : 

" Whether 't is or not, it has been there, as I 
said, nigh on to fifteen year ; and it has a perfect 
right to be there, for this aint a navigable stream." 

They then talked of terms ; and Mr. Dushee, 
after much hesitation, named a price for the whole 
place, and also a separate price for the mill. 

"If everything is as you say, and as it looks to 
be," said Rush, "I '11 have my brothers, and per- 
haps my uncle, come and talk with you." 

"It 's jest as I say, and jest as it looks," Mr. 
Dushee assured him. Then, as Rush started to 
go, he said: " Wait till we tackle up, and my boy 
shall carry you over to the depot. Dick, run and 
be backing out the buggy." 

Rush Tinkham took a last survey of the mill, 
the river, and the pleasant grounds, while father 
and son were "tackling up," and the father gave 
the son this parting counsel : 

" Watch the clock on the steeple, and keep 
driving till jest a minute or two afore train-time, 
so he wont have no chance to talk with anybody 
else about the mill. And be sure you don't let on 
anything about " 

Here he lowered his voice, for the horse was 
harnessed, and Rush was coming to get into the 

Returning along the hill-side toward the lake, 
Rush, from the high buggy-seat, observed an 
object which had hardly attracted his attention 
when he passed within sight of it on foot. It was an 
odd-looking, half-finished structure, partly hidden 
by trees on the shore. 

" What are they building over there? " he asked 
of Dick Dushee. 

Now, as this was a dangerously near approach to 
the subject which he had been warned by his father 
not to "let on anything about," Dick Dushee, I 
regret to say, prevaricated. 

"Oh, I d'n' know," he replied. " Some sort of 
a summer-house, I believe." 

"An odd-locking summer-house," was Rush 
Tinkham's comment, "and an ugly object to be 
set there, on the lake-shore ! " 

Dick Dushee looked straight before his nose at 
the horse's tail, and made no reply. 

They rode on, and, with his mind full of other 

i 882.] 



things, Rush thought no more of the odd-looking 
" summer-house," destined though it was to be 
the source of unnumbered woes to the future own- 
ers of the tide-mill. 

Chapter III. 


Rush TINKHAM went home that evening full 
of enthusiasm for the purchase of the Dushee 

" It seems as though the place had been made 
on purpose for us," he said, drawing his chair up 
to the table, where the family were already at 
supper. " We must have it ! We will have it ! " 

" Even if we have to steal it," suggested Martin, 
the oldest son, whose habit it was to grow cool as 
the juniors grew warm on any subject. 

He had a dry way with him, and a serious drawl, 
which, together with a trick of drawing down one 
side of his homely mouth, gave a droll effect to his 
little sarcasms. 

" You would say steal it, or anything, to have 
it, if you should pay it a visit," said Rush. " Oh ! 
the nice water-power, the iron lathe and the wood 
lathe, the steam-box, the forge, the jig-saws, and 
things — it would do your heart good, Mart, to see 
'em ! " 

" I rather think it would make my heart ache to 
see what I could n't have," Mart replied. 

" Rush has got tide-mill on the brain," remarked 
Luther, the second son, a near-sighted youth in 
glasses, which gave a singularly old look to his 
face of nineteen. He stammered a little. " F-f- 
funny ! Rush can't invent anything, and yet he 's 
the one who is so anxious for us to have a f-f-f- 
factory of our own." 

"You are just as anxious as he is," spoke up 
Letty, the sister, a bright girl in her sixteenth year; 
" but you are not half so enterprising." 

"Come, children," said the mild mother, in her 
cripple's chair, which had been drawn up to the 
table, "postpone your disputes, and hear what 
Rocket has to say." 

" Rocket " was the playful family name for Rush ; 
though I am not sure that any one could have told 
how he ever came by it. Perhaps it was on account 
of an eager, impetuous way he had of starting up 
and darting off on new enterprises — a trait which 
had been more noticeable in him two or three 
years before than now. 

Or it may have been suggested by his real name. 
Since a rocket goes with a rush, why should not 
" Rush" give rise to " Rocket" ? 

Each of the children had some such nickname, 
and it was a beautiful trait of the mother that, 

despite her years, her widowhood, and her crippled 
limb, she entered into all innocent sportiveness of 
this sort with as much spirit as any of them. 

" The tide-mill is my idea, and, for that rea- 
son, Mart and Lute oppose it," said Rush. "But 
they '11 come 'round. It 's just the place for you, 
Mother ; and for you, Letty ! Such a great willow- 
tree as there is, with seats in it, almost over the 
water, and a foot-plank running to them from the 
bank ! A pair of blue-birds came while I was there, 
and told me how pleasant it was in summer." 

"Oh ! " exclaimed Letty, sharing his enthusiasm. 
"You make me want to fly to get there! I'm 
longing for trees and water ! " 

"And, of course, we shall keep' a boat and a 
horse; and, Mother, you shall have the loveliest 
rides on the lake and the fine Tammoset roads ! " 
Rush rattled on. "And a garden for flowers and 
vegetables — think of that ! And pigs and chickens, 
boys ! " addressing the two youngest, at the end of 
the table. 

"I go in for the pigs and chickens !" cried 
Rupert, aged fourteen. 

"Let 's move to-morrow ! " exclaimed Rodman, 
aged twelve. 

•' But you have n't told us the price of all these 
fine things," said the mother, with a smile. 

" Yes, Rocket," added Martin', who was far more 
interested than he appeared. " Now for the cold 

"The asking price is four thousand dollars. 
But I 've no doubt we can buy it for three, for 
Dushee is awfully anxious to sell. That includes 
everything : and there is an acre of land. By the 
way, boys, there 's a good joke ! " 

And, to explain Dushee's motive for selling, 
Rush told the story of the dolls' carriages which 
Luther's had driven out of the market. 

That pleased Luther, and brought him over to 
Rush's side. 

"Now, 1 've something to tell you," he said. 
" Mart to-day received a p-p-proposal to make 
all the wood-work of Cole & Company's fire- 
works. To do that, we shall need our own shop." 

"Oh, now! if everything is n't made a-pur- 
pose ! " said Rush. "Dushee said he must have 
half down in cash, say fifteen hundred. You 've 
got twelve hundred, Mother ; and I 'm sure we 
can raise the rest somehow, with enough to move 
and start with." 

The widow smiled, but with something like a 
look of pain. 

'"My poor little twelve hundred dollars!" she 
said ; "all I have in the world ! " 

"Except your children, Mother," said Letty, 
with a high, proud look. "See those five stal- 
wart boys ! " 




"And my dear, darling daughter!" said the 
mother, with starting tears. " I know better than 
anybody else what you all are to me. I am rich 
in your love and help. But I must look out care- 
fully for my twelve hundred dollars, just the same. 
I can't — I can't risk that !" 

" Where 's the risk?" Rush asked. " I tell you 
this is a big thing that has been kept waiting for 
us. We 're bound to succeed, and build up a 
business, and make such a home for you, Mother, 
as you never could have unless we launched out a 

"Well, well! we '11 see," said Mrs. Tinkham, 
quickly brushing away a tear, and smiling reso- 
lutely. " We shall do nothing rashly." 

" Of course," replied Rush. " I want Lute 
and Mart and Uncle Dave to go and see the place, 
examine it thoroughly, and make sure that every-' 
thing about it is all right ; and then buy it only 
if they think it 's best." 

There was much more talk on the exciting topic, 
the result of which was that the two oldest boys 
and their uncle visited the Dushee place two days 
later, and got the refusal of it for thirty-six hun- 

dred dollars — sixteen hundred to be paid in cash, 
the remainder to be secured by mortgage. 

The uncle advised the purchase, and Mart and 
Lute were now as eager as Rush himself to get 
possession of the old tide-mill and the river-side 
home. They had not noticed the odd-looking 
" summer-house" on the lake-shore. 

The boys had two hundred dollars of their own, 
and their uncle, who knew them well and believed 
in them, offered to lend them five hundred more. 
After that the mother could no longer withhold 
her consent. 

To make every step secure, a lawyer examined 
the title to the property, and, that being found 
satisfactory, the bargain was finally closed, to the 
great joy of Rush and his brothers, and equally 
to the satisfaction of Mr. Dushee. 

" They 're young and plucky; they can fight it 
better 'n I can," he remarked, with a big sigh of 
relief, when he told Dick that he had at last got 
the " plaguy thing" off his hands. " Now let 'em 
find out ! " 

Thus, the tide-mill became the property of the 
Tinkham bovs, and began its exciting adventures. 

(To be co?ttzmtcd.) 

By Mrs. M. F. Butts. 

Little Kate Andrews had long wished to keep 
a diary. Her elegant Cousin Maud, from the city, 
who wore trails and frizzes, and carried a wonder- 
ful painted fan and a white parasol trimmed with 
lace, kept a diary. She used to sit at her table 
and write, after everybody else was in bed. Some- 
times Kate slept with her, and she would wake up 
after her first long nap, and watch Maud as she 
wrote. Kate thought she looked very interesting 
in her long white wrapper, her black hair hanging 
over her shoulders, and her head supported upon 
her hand. To sit up in that way and write in a 
diary was the little girl's highest ambition. 

So, when Maud asked Kate what she should buy 
for her after she went back to the city, the child 
answered : "A diary, please; one just like yours." 

The diary came all right, wrapped in buff paper, 
and directed to "Miss Kate Andrews, care of 
James Andrews, Esq." 

Kate was delighted. She meant to sit up late 
that very night. Mamma was going to a party, and 
it would be easy to sit up till nine o'clock at least. 

But, for fear something would happen, she 
thought she would make one entry in her new 
book in the afternoon. So she went to Papa's desk, 
got pen, ink, and blotter, and sat down in the 
desk-chair with her left hand supporting her head, 
in imitation of Cousin Maud. 

But what should she write ? Her little mind was 
perfectly blank the moment she got the pen in 
her hand. Brother Ned sat at the open window, 
studying his grammar lesson. 

"Ned, will you please tell me what folks put in 
diaries mostly?" she said. 

" Events and feelings," said Ned, grandly. 

Kate wrote across the upper part of the first page, 
•• Evenz and Fealings," when she came to another 

" But, Ned, what is events? " she asked, after a 

"Eating your dinner is an event," said Ned. 
" And sometimes they put good resolutions into 
their diaries. And they write down the bad things 
they have done." 



Kate became very quiet. 

" If eating dinner is an event," she thought, " it 
is n't interesting enough to put in a diary. I think 
Cousin Maud wrote about the friends who came to 
see her, and the books she read. But I should n't 
'spose folks would want to write it down when they 
don't do as they ought to. I want my diary to be 
nice reading." 

So, under June I, 1881, she wrote: 

" There is no evenz worth writing down. When 
I get time, I shall make up some. About my feal- 
ings, I have n't much of any." 

In the evening, after Mamma went to the party, 
Kate carried the pen and ink to the nursery. 
Nurse, thinking she had gone to bed, sat in the 
kitchen gossiping with the cook. The little girl 
established herself at the table and began to write : 

"To-day, a man came and pade me the rent. 
It was a million dollars. I gave some to a minis- 
ter to build a meeting-hous and make a chine of 
bells. I bought a white saton dress, with an awful 
long trane. A member of Congress carried my 
trane. The President gave me a bokay of roses. 

My fealings were happy, 'speshly when I gave my 
white saton dress to a poor woman with 10 chil- 
dren, and bought me a pink one with pink roses 
embroidered onto it." 

Under another date, she wrote : 

" I wore a reeth of white roses to-day, maid of 
purls. A beggir child came, and I took a rose out 
of the reeth and gave it to her. The Prince 
smiled at me, and called me an angil. 

'• I sat under a tree and read a thick book in an 
hour. Reading is nice." 

It took Kate a long time to write all this. When 
she had finished, she said : " There, that 's what I 
call events ! " 

While she was trying to read over her " Evenz 
and Fealings," she fell fast asleep, dropping her 
pen and making a big blot' on the page There 
Mamma and Papa found her, when they came home 
from the party. 

They had a hearty laugh over the poor little 
book, and after that, whenever they spoke of a 
stilted, unnatural person, they said: " He reminds 
me of Kate's diary." 


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By Palmer Cox. 




By Noah Brooks. 

Before the time of President Abraham Lincoln, 
there had been very few children living in the White 
House. Mr. Buchanan, who immediately preceded 
Lincoln, was unmarried. Mr. Pierce, who came next 
before Buchanan, was childless, his only son hav- 
ing been killed by a sorrowful accident just before 
the newly elected President moved into the house 
where he had anticipated taking his much-beloved 
boy. And so, for man}' years, no President had 
brought into the White House the mirth and 
laughter of childhood. People who visited the 
home of the President, in Washington, used often 
to remark on the absence of children; and I dare 
say that many a mother, as she wandered through 
the stately apartments of that celebrated house, 
thought to herself that she would not like to live in 
the midst of its grandeur if she had to give up the 
companionship of her dear boys and girls. Per- 
haps it was because of this absence of children 
that everybody used to say that the White House 
did not seem like a home, but rather a place to 
"stay" at for a time. 

This was all changed when Lincoln and his 
family came to Washington, in March, 1861. At 
that time three boys were the only children of 
the good Lincoln. Robert, the eldest, now Secre- 
tary of War for the United States, was then not 
quite eighteen years old. Willie, the next eld- 
est, was a little more than ten years of age; and 
Thomas, better known as "Tad," was eight years 
old, having been born April 4, 1853. His next 
birthday was probably the first boy's birthday ever 
celebrated in the White House. 

When these three boys, of eighteen, ten, and 
eight years respectively, came to the White House, 
it may be imagined that they speedily changed the 
aspect of things in the quiet and dignified old 
mansion. They were happy, heart} - boys, brought 
up to spend much of their time in out-door sports 
and boyish exercise. Visitors to the White House 
soon noticed a change from the dull, uniform quiet 
that had prevailed during the administration of 
Mr. Buchanan, whose stately and old-bachelor 
ways were very different from those of the home- 
loving family that had succeeded the solitary old 
man. Bats, tops, kites, and other playthings were 
oftentimes to be seen scattered about in the grand 
halls of the mansion. The shouts and clatter of two 
youngsters were heard resounding through the fine 
old corridors, and visitors who well knew the place 
would smile and nudge each other when they 

picked up, as they sometimes did, a trifle which 
indicated that a very-much-alive boy had been scur- 
rying through the state apartments, on a short cut 
across the house. 

Robert, however, did not long remain in the 
White House. He had entered Phillips Academy, 
Exeter, N. H., in July, 1859, and had been admitted 
to Harvard during the following year. Going home 
in February, 1S61, for the first time since his 
original departure, he accompanied his father to 
Washington, and so was present at the inauguration. 
But he soon rejoined his class, and Tad and Willie 
were the two boys of the White House. As a 
pleasant souvenir of those days, I give the readers 
of St. Nicholas a copy of a portrait of Robert, 
taken soon after the arrival of the family in 
Washington, in February, 1862, the shadow 
of a great grief came down upon the cheery fam- 
ily in the White House. Willie, the studious and 
lovable boy, the joy and comfort of his mother and 
father, died suddenly, after a short illness. By this 
time, the War of the Rebellion had waxed fierce 
and deadly. In almost every house there was 
mourning and lamentation for the dead, alarm and 
anxiety for the absent. The good President was 
sorely distressed with many cares and troubles. He 
was continually thinking, with a heavy heart, of the 
sorrows of others, whose beloved sons, brothers, 
and friends had fallen on the field of battle. Yet 
he knew that more must fall before the war could 
be ended and peace return. And, in the midst of 
these heavy griefs that weighed down the heart 
of the noble Lincoln, came the death of his bright- 
eyed and affectionate little son. It was less than a 
year after the three boys had come to the White 
House that Willie's pale form was laid, with many 
tears, in the house appointed for all mankind. 

We shall never know how deep was the sorrow 
of Lincoln, the tender-hearted father, when this 
new and unlooked-for blow fell upon him. He was 
not a man to talk much of what was deepest in his 
mind. Although he was pleasant and bright in his 
conversation with friends, he kept locked up in 
his heart many of the thoughts which men of a 
different nature would have put into words. But 
some of us know that, in the long nights when 
Lincoln sat alone in his chamber, oppressed with 
unspeakable anxieties for the whole country, and 
waiting to hear news from the struggling army of 
the Union, the darkness of his own personal grief 
came over him to deepen his loneliness and gloom. 




Once, while Lincoln was passing several days at 
Fortress Monroe, waiting for certain military move- 
ments, he employed his leisure in reading Shake- 
speare. While thus engaged one day, looking 
through into an adjoining apartment, where was 
seated Colonel Cannon, of General Wool's staff, he 
called to him, as if longing for fellowship in his 
thoughts, and asked him to listen while he read 
from the book. He then recited a few passages 
from '•Hamlet" and from '•Macbeth." Then, 
turning to " King John," he read the passage in 
which Constance bewails the loss of her boy. 
Closing the book and recalling the words, Lincoln 
asked Colonel Cannon if he had ever dreamed of 
being with one whom he had lost in death, only to 
wake and find the vision fled. 

"Just so," he said, "I dream of my boy Willie." 
The loving father bowed his head and wept as he 
recalled the words of Constance : 

"And. Father Cardinal, I have heard you say 
That we shall see and know our friends in Heaven : 
If that be true, I shall see my boy again." 

It was this bereavement, I think, that made Mr. 
Lincoln and his wife very tender and indulgent 
toward their youngest boy. It seemed almost 
impossible for father or mother to be stern to this 
boisterous and irrepressible youngster. Besides 
this, he had many qualities that endeared him to 
those who knew him, and there were circumstances 
that made almost everybody very kindly disposed 
toward him. If there was ever a boy in danger of 
being " spoiled," this youngest son of the President 
was that lad. Much of the time it was impossible 
that he should not be left to run at large. He was 
foolishly caressed and petted by people who wanted 
favors of his father, and who took this way of 
making a friend in the family, as they thought ; 
and he was living in the midst of a most exciting 
epoch in the country's history, when a boy in the 
White House was in a strange and somewhat un- 
natural atmosphere. But I am bound to say that 
Tad, although he doubtless had his wits sharp- 
ened by being in such strange surroundings, was 
never anything else, while I knew him, but a bois- 
terous, rollicking, and absolutely real boy. He 
was not " old for his years," as we sometimes say 
of precocious children, nor was he burdened with 
care before his time. He was a big-hearted and 
fresh-faced youngster, and when he went away 
from the White House, after his father's tragic end, 
he carried with him, from the midst of sorrows 
and associations that are now historic, the same 
boyish frankness and simplicity that he took into it. 

The boy was named Thomas after his grand- 
father, the father of the great President. An 
unfortunate difficulty in his speech prevented him 

from speaking plainly, and strangers could hardly 
understand what he said. The nearest he could 
come to saying his own name, when quite a little 
fellow, was ''Tad," and the name clung to him 
for many a year. In the family he was usually 
known as "' Taddie," but even this nickname was 
shortened, and those who were fortunate enough 
to be near the President during his term of gov- 
ernment will never forget " Tad," the tricksy sprite 
of the White House. 

In those days, it was the custom of people who 
objected to the prosecution of the war to speak of 
Lincoln as "a tyrant." This seems silly enough 
now, when all the commotion and bitterness of 
the war have passed away ; but even then, to 
those who knew the mild-mannered and tender- 
hearted President, the word had no meaning. One 
day, going to the White House, I met a very eminent 
public man, who. with a queer look,. said, "I have 
just had an interview with the tyrant of the White 
House." Then, noticing my surprise, he' added — 
"Tad," and went away laughing at his little joke. 
If there was any tyrant in that house during Lin- 
coln's administration, his name was Tad. The boy 
certainly did rule everybody who came within his 
power. Without being domineering or unpleasant 
with his imperiousness, he had a fashion of issuing 
orders that brooked no delay, no refusal. He over- 
ran the White House and the grounds. It was 
seldom that he had playmates ; but, to hear the 
noise that Tad contrived to make, one would sup- 
pose that there were at least six boys wherever he 
happened to be. The day was passed in a series 
of enterprises, panics, and commotions. Tad in- 
vaded every part of the great establishment, and 
he was an uncommonly knowing person who could 
tell where the agile lad was likely next to appear, 
at any hour of the day. Now his whoop would be 
heard as he galloped his pony to the stable-door, 
and anon he would be expostulating with his dog- 
team, as he trained them on the lawn by the side 
of the house next the Potomac. A party of ladies 
(said to be from Boston) were one day almost 
frozen with horror as they were reverentially stalk- 
ing about the famous East Room. There was an 
outburst and a clatter at the most distant end of 
the corridor leading to the family apartments, a 
cry of "Get out of the way, there!" and Tad, 
driving a tandem team of goats harnessed to a 
chair, careered into the state apartment, once 
around, and then out to the front of the house. 

One of his admiring friends gave him a box of 
tools. This was, for a few days, a mine of pleasure 
to Tad. There was nothing within his reach that 
was not sawed, bored, chiseled, or hacked with 
some one of the tools of that collection. At first, 
he proposed setting up a cabinet-shop for the man- 




ufacture of furniture for the hospitals. Then the 
repairing of a wagon engaged his attention ; but 
when he began to try experiments with the old- 
fashioned mahogany chairs in the East Room, the 
box of tools mysteriously disappeared. 

Of course, Tad knew no law, no restraint, that 
should bar any part of the house against him. So 
it sometimes happened that, while the President 
and his Cabinet were anxiously discussing affairs of 
state, and were in the midst of questions of great 
moment, Tad would burst into the room, bubbling 
with excitement, and insist that his complaint or 
request should be attended to at once. Sometimes 
it was the woes of some ill-clad petitioner, repulsed 
by the ushers, that aroused his childish wrath. 
At other times he would insist on being allowed to 
drag before the President of the United States a 
particularly youthful suitor, whose tale he had 
heard for himself, and who appeared in the pres- 
ence with an air of mingled terror and amuse- 
ment. There was a certain Cabinet officer whom 
he did not like, and when he had burst into his 
father's privacy, one morning, to find the objection- 
able functionary there, Tad, unabashed, cried out, 
" What are you here so early for? What do you 
want ? " It may be added that office-seekers gen- 
erally he regarded with undisguised contempt. 

While Mr. F. B. Carpenter, the artist, was at 
work on his picture of Lincoln and his Cabinet, it 
was found necessary to make some photographic 
studies of the room in which the President and his 
council were to be represented as assembled. In 
his book, " Six Months at the White House," Mr. 
Carpenter tells a characteristic story of Tad's op- 
position to all attempts to infringe upon what he 
considered to be his rights. While the photog- 
raphers were at work, Mr. Carpenter took them 
to a room which could be darkened for their pur- 
poses, but of which Tad had lately taken posses- 
sion and had fitted up as a miniature theater, with 
drop-curtain, seats, orchestra, and benches. 

Everything was going on well, when suddenly 
there was an uproar. 

Tad took great offense at the occupancy of his 
room without his consent, and, turning everybody 
out, locked the door. In his anger, the little fel- 
low put all the blame on Mr. Carpenter, and abso- 
lutely refused to allow the photographers even to 
go into the room for their apparatus and chemicals, 
there locked up. He pocketed the key, and went 
to his father in high dudgeon. 

Mr. Lincoln was sitting in his chair, one photo- 
graph having been already taken. He mildly told 
Tad to go and open the door. 

Tad went off to his mother's room, muttering 
and refusing to obey, Mr. Carpenter following and 
vainly entreating him to open the door. 

Presently Lincoln said, when Mr. Carpenter re- 
turned, " Has not the boy opened the door?" 

On being told that he had not, the patient 
father, compressing his lips, strode off to the family 
apartments, and soon returned with the key to the 
theater, which he unlocked himself, saying : 

" There, go ahead ; it 's all right now." 

The President went back to his office, and, re- 
suming his seat, said, as if in apology for Tad : 

" Tad is a peculiar child. He was violently ex- 
cited when I went to him. I said, ' Tad, do you 
know you are making your father a great deal of 
trouble?' He burst into tears, and instantly gave 
me the key." 

A friend of the Lincoln family once sent a fine 
live turkey to the White House, with the request 
that it should be served on the President's Christ- 
mas table. But Christmas was then several weeks 
off, and in the interim Tad won the confidence 
and esteem of the turkey, as he did the affection of 
every living thing with which he came in contact. 
"Jack," as the fowl had been named, was an ob- 
ject of great interest to Tad, who fed him, petted 
him, and began to teach him to follow his young 
master. One day, just before Christmas, 1863, 
while the President was engaged with one of his 
Cabinet ministers on an affair of great moment, 
Tad burst into the room like a bomb-shell, sobbing 
and crying with rage and indignation. The turkey 
was about to be killed. Tad had procured from 
the executioner a stay of proceedings while he flew 
to lay the case before the President. Jack must 
not be killed ; it was wicked. 

" But," said the President, " Jack was sent here 
to be killed and eaten for this very Christmas." 

" I can't help it," roared Tad, between his sobs. 
" He 's a good turkey, and I don't want him killed." 

The President of the United States, pausing in 
the midst of his business, took a card and wrote 
on it an order of reprieve. The turkey's life was 
spared, and Tad, seizing the precious bit of paper, 
fled to set him at liberty. In course of time Jack 
became very tame, and roamed at will about the 
premises. He was a prime favorite with the sol- 
diers — a company of Pennsylvania " Bucktails " — 
who were on guard at the house. The tents of 
these soldiers were at the bottom of the south 
lawn, on the Potomac side of the house. In the 
summer of 1864, the election for President being 
then pending, a commission was sent on from 
Pennsylvania to take the votes of the Pennsylvania 
soldiers in Washington. While the "Bucktails" 
were voting, Tad rushed into his father's room, the 
windows of which looked out on the lawn, crying, 
" Oh, the soldiers are voting for Lincoln for Presi- 
ent ! " He dragged his father to the window and 
insisted that he should see this remarkable thing. 




The turkey, now grown tall and free-mannered, 
stalked about among the soldiers, regarding the 
proceedings with much interest. 

" Does Jack vote ? " asked Lincoln, with a roguish 
twinkle of his eye. 

Tad paused for a moment, nonplussed at the 
unexpected question ; then rallying, he replied, 
"Why, no, of course not. He is n't of age yet." 

Great was Tad's curiosity, in 1864, to know 
what was meant by the President's proclamation for 
a day of fasting and prayer. His inquiries were 
not satisfactorily answered, but 
from the servants he learned, Wv-'Ji'; '/-■: ": '-?: '.'.' ' : ' 
to his great dismay, that there 
would be nothing eaten in the Mi . 
White House from sunrise to ; , ■ ' ■ \ ";, 
sunset on Fast Day. The \. 
boy, who was blessed with a 1 1 
vigorous appetite, took meas- 
ures to escape from the rigors N 
of the day. It happened that, 
just before Fast Day came, f; 
the family carriage was brought 
out of its house to be cleaned ' 
and put in order. Tad stood 
by, with feelings of alarm, while 
a general overhauling of the 
vehicle went on, the coachman . . 

dusting, rubbing, and pulling .:■'.'■ 

things about, quite uncon- ;■■...' 

scious of Tad's anxious watch £,'■ : ■ ,s 

on the proceedings. Pretty | .-•"''■ ■■-'. 

soon, drawing out a queer- ■■'■ 

looking bundle from one of 
the boxes under the seat, the 
man brought to light a part 
of a loaf of bread, some bits of 
cold meat, and various other 
fragments of food from the 

larder. Tad, now ready to : 

burst with anger and disap- 
pointment, cried, "Oh! oh! 
give that up, I say ! That 's ; 
my Fast Day picnic ! " The 
poor lad, from dread of go- 
ing hungry, had cautiously 
hidden, from day to day, a 
portion of food against the day of fasting, and 
had stood by while his hoard was in danger 
hoping that it might escape the eyes of the sen- 
ants. He was consoled by a promise from his 
mother, to whom he ran with his tale of woe, that 
he should not suffer hunger on Fast Day, even 
though his father, the President, had proclaimed a 
day of fasting, humiliation, and prayer for all the 

Mingled with his boyish simplicity, Tad had a 

great deal of native shrewdness. The White 
House was infested with a numerous horde of 
office-seekers. From day to day these men crowded 
the corridors leading to the President's office. 
Sometimes they were so numerous as to line the 
halls all the way down the stairs. It was not long 
before Tad found out what this assemblage meant, 
and it then became one of his greatest diversions, 
when other resources failed, to go around among 
the office-seekers and sympathetically inquire what 
thev wanted, how long thev had waited, and how 

.:& ; 


much longer they proposed to wait. To some he 
gave good advice, telling them to go home and 
chop wood for a living. Others he tried to dis- 
miss by volunteering to speak to his father in their 
behalf, if the)- would promise not to come again. 
Many of these people were at the White House for 
weeks and even months, never missing a day, 
unless they learned that the President was out of 
town, or otherwise absent from the house. 

Tad levied tribute on the men whose faces he 



had learned to know. Once he mounted guard at 
the foot of the staircase and compelled every pas- 
senger to pay an admission fee of five cents, — " for 
the benefit of the Sanitary Fund," as he explained. 
Most of the visitors took it in good part, and some 
of the fawning creatures, glad of an opportunity to 
earn the good-will of the little fellow, paid their 
way with a " stamp " of some considerable value. 
This venture was so successful that Tad resolved 
on having one of the Sanitary Commission fairs 
then so much in vogue all over the country. He 
placed a table in the grand corridor, or entrance 
hall, of the White House, stocked it with a few 
broken toys, some purchases of fruit, sundry arti- 
cles of food begged from the family pantry, and 
a lot of miscellaneous odds and ends contributed 
by admiring friends. Before night, the sanitary- 
fair of the White House was closed out. No man 
who looked as if he had money in his pocket was 
permitted to pass into the House that day without 
first buying something of Master Lincoln's stock 
in trade. 

His success in this venture emboldened him 
soon afterward to branch out in a larger specula- 
tion. Having saved up quite a sum of pocket- 
money, he bought out the entire stock of an old 
woman who sold apples and gingerbread near the 
Treasury building. A pair of trestles and a board, 
extorted from the carpenters employed on the 
building, gave the young merchant his counter, 
and he set up his shop in the grand, historic por- 
tico of the White House, much to the horror of 
some of the eminently respectable people who passed 
by and beheld this most undignified proceeding. 
Before noon, almost every office-seeker who entered 
had bought a luncheon, under compulsion, from 
the alert young shop-keeper, who drove a brisk 
trade as long as his goods lasted. When Tad had 
sold out all he had to sell, a goodly lot of the frac- 
tional currency of those times was stuffed into his 
pockets, his hat, and his little fist. He was " the 
President's son," and that was enough for the flat- 
terers, who were glad to buy of him. But Tad was 
too generous and open-handed to be long a gainer 
by any such operations. Before night, capital and 
profits had been squandered, and the little specu- 
lator went penniless to bed. 

Everything that Tad did was done with a certain 
rush and rude strength which were peculiar to him. 
I was once sitting with the President in the library, 
when Tad tore into the room in search of some- 
thing, and, having found it, he threw himself on 
his father like a small thunderbolt, gave him one 
wild, fierce hug, and, without a word, fled from the 
room before his father could put out his hand to 
detain him. With all his boyish roughness, Tad 
had a warm heart and a tender conscience. He 

abhorred falsehood as he did books and study. 
Tutors came and went, like changes of the moon. 
None staid long enough to learn much about the 
boy ; but he knew them before they had been one 
day in the house. " Let him run," his father 
would say; "there 's time enough yet for him to 
learn his letters and get poky. Bob was just such 
a little rascal, and now he is a very decent boy." 

It was curious, however, to see how Tad com- 
prehended many practical realities that are far 
beyond the grasp of most boys. Even when he 
could scarcely read, he knew much about the 
cost of things, the details of trade, the principles of 
mechanics, and the habits of animals, all of which 
showed the activity of his mind and the odd turn 
of his thoughts. His father took great interest in 
everything that concerned Tad, and, when the long 
day's work was done, and the little chap had re- 
lated to the President all that had moved him or 
had taken up his attention during the daylight 
hours, and had finally fallen asleep under a drowsy 
cross-examination, the weary father would turn 
once more to his desk, and work on into the night, 
for his cares never ended. Then, shouldering the 
sleeping child, the man for whom millions of good 
men and women nightly prayed took his way 
through silent corridors and passages to his boy's 

One day, Tad, in search of amusement, loitered 
into the office of the Secretary of War, and Mr. 
Stanton, for the fun of the thing,' commissioned 
him a lieutenant of United States Volunteers. 
This elated the boy so much that he went off im- 
mediately and ordered a quantity of muskets sent 
to the White House, and then he organized and 
drilled the house-servants and gardeners, and, with- 
out attracting anybody's attention, he actually dis- 
charged the regular sentries about the premises 
and ordered his unwilling recruits on duty as 

Robert Lincoln soon discovered what had been 
done, and as he thought it a great hardship that 
men who had been at work all day should be 
obliged to keep watch during the night to gratify 
a boyish freak, he remonstrated. But Tad would 
listen to nothing from his elder brother, and 
Robert appealed to his father, who only laughed 
at the matter as a good joke. Tad soon tired, 
however, of his self-imposed duties and went to 
bed. The drafted men were quietly relieved from 
duty, and there was no guard at the President's 
mansion that night, much to Mr. Lincoln's relief. 
He never approved of the precaution of mounting 
guard at the White House. While Tad sported 
his commission as lieutenant, he cut quite a mili- 
tary figure. From some source he procured a 
uniform suitable to his supposed rank, and thus 




proudly attired, he had himself photographed, as 
seen in the illustration on page 64. 

It had been intended to celebrate Tad's tenth 
birthday, April 4, 1863, by a visjt to the Army 
of the Potomac, then encamped on the banks of 
the Rappahannock, opposite Fredericksburg. The 
President, at the suggestion of Mrs. Lincoln, had 
thought that it would cheer the soldiers to see the 
familiar face of the chief magistrate among them 
before their anticipated departure for the front. 
But other business had intervened, and it was not 
until the boy's birthday had actually arrived, and 
with it a present of a fine pony, that we got away 
from Washington. Our party consisted of Tad, 
his father and mother, Mr. Edward Bates, the 
Attorney-General of the United States, and two 
friends of the family. Toward evening a violent 
and unseasonable snow-storm came up, and the 
little steamer that was taking us from Washing- 
ton to Aquia Creek (the landing-place of the army) 
was compelled to cast anchor for the night under 
the lee of a headland of the Potomac. By that 
time Tad had examined every nook and corner 
of the steamer, and as the President's party were 
the only passengers on board, he had full swing 
during the trip. After we had anchored, Tad, re- 
solved to employ advantageously every moment of 
the time, rigged up a fishing-line and went val- 
iantly to work, in the midst of the snow-storm, to 
catch fish for supper. He promptly reported every 
bite to his father or mother, and when he finally 
rushed into their presence with a single very small 
and very bony fish, a proud and happy boy was he. 
But we actually did have a smoking platter of fish 
for supper, much to the delight of Tad, who had 
marked the three fish of his own catching by cut- 
ting off their tails. 

During the five days of our stay in the Army of 
the Potomac, Tad was a most restless little chap. 
At General Hooker's head-quarters there was a 
bakery, a printing-office, a telegraph station, and 
sundry other small establishments, all in shanties 
or tents. We were quartered in large "hospital 
tents," as they were called. By the end of the 
first day, Tad had exhausted everything in sight, 
and was ready to go home to his beloved pony. 
But there were reviews and parades to come, and 
for these the President must stay. Each day, be- 
ginning with the second of our stay, was taken up 
with a review. While these lasted Tad was happy. 
A handsome young soldier was detailed to act as 
escort to the boy, and a little gray horse consoled 
him, for the time, for the absence of his own pony. 

That long series of reviews in the Army of the 
Potomac, just before the battle of Chancellorsville, 
will never be forgotten by the participants. Over 
hill and dale dashed the brilliant cavalcade of the 

gcneral-in-chief, surrounded by a company of offi- 
cers in gay attire and sparkling with gold lace, 
the party being escorted by the Philadelphia Lan- 
cers, a showy troop of soldiers. In the midst, or 
at the head, rose and fell, as the horses galloped 
afar, the form of Lincoln, conspicuous by his height 
and his tall black hat. And ever on the flanks of 
the hurrying column flew, like a flag or banneret, 
Tad's little gray riding - cloak. His short legs 
atuck straight out from his saddle, and sometimes 
there was danger that his steed, by a sudden turn 
in the rough road, would throw him off like a bolt 
from a catapult. But faithful Michael was always 
ready to steady the lad, and, much to the amaze- 
ment of everybody, the hard-riding and reckless 
youngster turned up at head-quarters every night, 
flushed with the excitement of the day, but safe 
and sound. 

The soldiers soon learned of Tad's presence in 
the army, and wherever he went on horseback 
he easily divided the honors with his father. I 
can not begin to tell you how the men cheered 
and shouted and waved their hats when they saw 
the dear face and tall figure of the good President, 
then the best-beloved man in the world; but to 
these men of war, far away from home and children, 
the sight of that fresh-faced and laughing boy 
seemed an inspiration. They cheered like mad. 
When told that he ought to doff his cap to the 
soldiers who saluted him, Tad sturdily replied : 
"Why, that 's the way General Hooker and Father 
do; but I 'm only a boy." 

When night came on, and there was nothing for 
Tad to do but to hang around his father and mother, 
he grew weary of the army, and longed for that 
pony at home. Then he would begin to ask why 
he could not go back. But it was in vain he re- 
minded his father that the soldiers did not like vis- 
itors, and in vain he told his mother that women 
were not wanted in the army. Finally, his father, 
to be rid of the boy's importunities, said: "Tad, 
I '11 make a bargain with you. If you will agree 
not to say anything about going home until we 
are ready to go, I will give you that dollar that 
you want so badly." For Tad had needed, as 
he thought, a whole dollar in cash. Being a truth- 
ful story-teller, I must say that Tad did sometimes, 
later during our stay, murmur at the long sojourn 
in the army; but, while we were waiting for the 
ambulances to take us to the station on our way 
back to the steam-boat landing, Lincoln took out 
a dollar note, saying, "Now, Taddie, my son, do 
you think you have earned this? " 

Tad hung his head and answered never a word ; 
but the President handed him the note, saying: 
" Well, my son, although I don't think you have 
kept your part of the bargain, I will keep mine, 




and you can not reproach me with breaking faith, 

On the way from head-quarters to the station 
there was an immense amount of cheering from the 
soldiers, who, as usual, seemed wild with delight at 
seeing the President. Occasionally we heard them 
cry, " Three cheers for Mrs. Lincoln ! " and they 
were given with a will. Then, again, the men 
would cry, " Three cheers for the boy ! " This 
salute Tad acknowledged, under instructions from 
his mother, and entirely unabashed by so much 
noise and attention. One soldier, after the line 
through which we were passing had given three 
cheers " for the next fight," cried," And send along 
the greenbacks ! " This arrested the attention of 
Tad, who inquired its meaning, and, when told 
that the army had not been paid for some time, 
on account of the scarcity of greenbacks, he said, 
with the true spirit of an inflationist, "Why does 
n't Governor Chase print 'em some, then ?" 

In the October number of The Century Magazine 
another incident in which Tad took part is nar- 
rated in a letter from Mr. Alexander Starbruck, of 
Waltham, Mass., as follows : 

"About the last of February, 1S65, Mr. H. F. 
Warren, a photographer of Waltham, Mass., left 
home, intending, if practicable, to visit the army in 
front of Richmond and Petersburg. Arriving in 
Washington on the morning of the 4th of March, 
and finding it necessary to procure passes to carry 
out the end he had in view, he concluded to re- 
main there until the inauguration ceremonies were 
over, and, having carried with him all the appara- 
tus necessary for taking negatives, he decided to 
try to secure a sitting from the President. At that 
time rumors of plots and dangers had caused the 
friends of President Lincoln to urge upon him the 
necessity of a guard, and, as he had finally per- 
mitted the presence of such a body, an audience 
with him was somewhat difficult. On the after- 
noon of the 6th of March, Mr. Warren sought a 
presentation to Mr. Lincoln, but found, after con- 
sulting with the guard, that an interview could be 
had on that day in only a somewhat irregular 
manner. After some conversation with the officer 
in charge, who became convinced of his loyalty, 
Mr. Warren was admitted within the lines, and, at 
the same time, was given to understand that the 
surest way to obtain an audience with the President 
was through the intercession of his little son ' Tad.' 
The latter was a great pet with the soldiers, and 
was constantly at their barracks, and soon made 
his appearance, mounted upon his pony. He and 
the pony were soon placed in position and photo- 
graphed, after which Mr. Warren asked ' Tad ' to 
tell his father that a man had come all the way 
from Boston, and was particularly anxious to see 

him and obtain a sitting from him. 'Tad' went 
to see his father, and word was soon returned that 
Mr. Lincoln would comply. In the meantime Mr. 
Warren had improvised a kind of studio upon the 
south balcony of the White House. Mr. Lincoln 
soon came out, and, saying but a very few words, 
took his seat as indicated. After a single negative 
was taken, he inquired : ' Is that all, sir ? ' Un- 
willing to detain him longer than was absolutely 
necessary, Mr. Warren replied: 'Yes, sir,' and 
the President immediately withdrew. At the time 
he appeared upon the balcony the wind was blow- 
ing freshly, as his disarranged hair indicates, and, 
as sunset was rapidly approaching, it was difficult 
to obtain a sharp picture. Six weeks later Presi- 
dent Lincoln was dead, and it is doubtless true 
that this is the last photograph ever made of him." 

Later, Tad figured with his father in one more 
historic scene. It was on the night of April 11, 
1865, when the President made his last long 
speech. The news of the fall of Petersburg and 
Richmond, and the flight of Lee and Davis had 
come to Washington. On that night the White 
House was illuminated, and there was great joy 
throughout the land, for we had begun to feel that 
the war was nearly over. Outside of the house 
was a vast crowd, cheering and shouting with a 
roar like that of the sea. A small battery from the 
Navy Yard occasionally rent the air with a salute, 
and the clamor of brass bands and the hissing of 
fire-works added to the confusion and racket in 
front of the mansion. Lincoln and a few friends 
lingered at the dinner-table until it was time for 
him to begin his speech. As the little party 
mounted the stairs to the upper part of the house, 
there was a tremendous din outside, as if roars of 
laughter were mingling with the music and the 
cheers. Inside of the house, at one of the front 
windows on the right of the staircase, was old 
Edward, the conservative and dignified butler of 
the White House, struggling with Tad and trying 
to drag him back from the window, from which he 
was waving a Confederate flag, captured in some 
fight and given to the boy. The crowd recognized 
Tad, who frantically waved the flag as he fought 
with Edward, while the people roared with delight. 
"The likes of it, Mister Tad," said the scandal- 
ized butler — "the likes of a rebel flag out of the 
windows of the White House ! Oh, did I ever ! " 

Edward conquered, and, followed by a parting 
cheer from the throng below, Tad rushed to his 
father with his complaints. But the President, just 
then approaching the center window overlooking 
the portico, stood with a beaming face before the 
vast assembly beneath, and the mighty cheer that 
arose drowned all other sounds. The speech began 
with the words, "We meet this evening, not in sor- 




row, but in gladness of ;.-.;.; 
heart." As Lincoln 
spoke, the multitude ' : '-.V 
was as silent as if the §§1 
court-yard had been | - 
deserted. Then, as his . ; : 
speech was written on jag 
loose sheets, and the 
candles placed for him :\ v 
were too low, he took ■■: j 
a light in his hand and -' '• 
went on with his read- 111 
ing. Soon coming to 'l'-:-\. 
the end of a page, he 
found some difficulty in 
handling the manu- 
script and holding the 
candlestick. A friend 
who stood behind the .;.'. 
drapery of the window 
reached out and took '. ' ... I 
the candle, and held it 
until the end of the 
speech, and the Presi- - in- 
dent let the loose pages v g| 
fall on the floor, one 
by one, as fast as he j^gg 
was through with them. "'"'"' 
Presently, Tad, having '"■ 
refreshed himself at -!_.._ 
the dinner-table, came '■':■ 

back in search of 
amusement. He gath- |p| 
ered up the scattered 18|| 
sheets of the Presi- - .-•; 
dent's speech, and 
then amused himself 
by chasing the leaves 
as they fluttered from j 
Lincoln's hand. Anon, jgg| 
growing impatient at >-.";•' 
his delay to drop an- ; 7 
other page, he whis- .-•"_■_ 
pered, ''Come, give -' 

me another ! " The 
President made a queer ; '"--.' 
motion with his foot : - '"" 

toward Tad, but other- ;." : ■_■■'-" 
wise showed no sign | : iZ-'lC-:: .._ 
that he had other 
thoughts than those on 
reconstruction which he was droppin 
eners beneath. 

Without was a vast sea of upturned faces, each 
eye fixed on the form of the President. Around 
the tall white pillars of the portico flowed an undu- 
lating surface of human beings, stirred by emotion 




to the list- 

arid lighted with the fantastic colors of fire-works. 
At the window, his face irradiated with patriotic 
joy, was the much-beloved Lincoln, reading the 
speech that was to be his last to the people. Behind 
crept back and forth, on his hands and knees, the 
boy of the White House, gathering up his father's 

8 2 .1 



carefuily written pages, and occasionally lifting up 
his eager face, waiting for more. It was before 
and behind the scenes. Sometimes I wonder, 
when I recall that night, how much of a father's 
love and thought of his boy might have been min- 
gled in Lincoln's last speech to the eager multitude. 

The dark and dreadful end was drawing nigh 
apace. Within a few days after that memorable 
night, the beloved Lincoln fell by the hand of an 
assassin. Amid the lamentations of a stricken 
nation, his form was carried back to Illinois to be 
buried near the spot where little Willie had been 
laid to rest. Soon afterward, the stricken family 
left the gloomy White House, and the sound of 
Tad's merry voice was heard no more in the man- 
sion of the people. 

After his father's death, Robert took charge of 
his brother's education until the lad went to Europe 
with his mother, in 1S69. Sobered and steadied 
by the great tragedy through which he had passed, 
Tad applied himself diligently to study, and made 
such progress that his friends cherished for him the 
brightest hopes. He was a self-reliant boy, firm 

in his friendships, cordial, modest, and as true as 
the needle to the pole whenever principle and just- 
ice were called in question. Under the tuition of 
a careful instructor in Germany, he quite overcame 
the difficulty in his speech which had burdened 
him from childhood. He was disciplined by an 
English-speaking German teacher, who required 
him to read aloud, slowly and distinctly, as a 
daily exercise. By this simple means he finally 
learned to speak plainly, but with a slight German 
accent which came from his practice in reading. 

Returning home with his mother in 187 1. he was 
taken with a severe illness, and after enduring with 
manly fortitude months of great pain, he passed 
away July 15, 1871, being then only a little more 
than eighteen years old. It was well said of him 
that he gave to the sad and solemn White House 
the only comic relief it knew. And, in justice to 
the memory of the boy whose life was but a briei 
and swiftly passing vision of a cheery spirit, it 
should be added that his gayety and affection were 
the only illumination of the dark hours of the best 
and greatest American who ever lived. 


(A Christmas Masque /or Young and Old.) 

By E. s. Brooks, 

Author 0/ the "Laud of Nod " and " Comedies /or Children." 
Music by Anthony Rieff. 

[This Masque is designed to precede the Christmas tree at a 
Christmas party. Its action may call for the help of the entire com- 
pany to assist at the choruses. All the children in the room may, if 
desired, be massed on the stage, and the chorus of parents may be 
given by the audience from the seats they occupy, provided they are 
led by a few ready voices near the piano. No special decoration is 
needed for the stage. The action should take place near the Christ- 
mas tree, which should, if possible, stand behind a curtain, or be 
screened by the folding- doors, until the end of the Masque, when it 
should be suddenly disclosed with all its blaze and glitter. The 
"properties" are simple and none of the costumes need be elaborate, 
but the setting can be as greatly diversified and elaborated as the 
inclination and facilities of the managers permit. Let the choruses 
and speaking parts be rendered with spirit. Much o/ the text can 
be sung- to familiar airs, which will readily suggest themselves to 
the musical directors.] 


Mr. Moneybags (afterward tJu False Sir Santa Clans).— Hard 

as his dollars, and "down on children." 
Santa Claus.— Positively the Only Original article. Noconnection 

whatever with the spurious imitation above. 
Jack Frost and his Wife.— Firm friends of the " only original." 
Jack O'Lantern. — The pugnacious young page of the False Sir 

Santa Claus. 
The Fairy Bountiful.— All glitter and spangles. 

VOL. X.— K. 

The False Four. The base and 
hireling policemen of the False 
Sir Santa Claus. 

Red Riding-hood's Wolf, 

The Big Bugaboo, 

The Whooping-cough Man 

The Wandering Jew, 

Dick, I 

Ethel, j Who do the talking for the rest of the children. 

Curly-locks, 1 

The Chorus of Children — The Indulgent Parents. 


Mr. Moneybags may be a " grown man," or a big boy. May be 
dressed in street costume at first. When he appears as the False 
Sir Santa Claus he should wear a full-dress suit, of fashionable 
cut, with opera hat, white kids, big watch-chain, trim white wig, 
white mustache and side-whiskers — as great a contrast as possible 
to the conventional Santa Claus. 

Santa Claus should be made up, as customary, "in fur from his 
head to his foot, a bundle of toys flung on his back," etc. Another 
" grown man " or big boy should be selected for this part. 

Jack Frost.— Boy of fifteen. ) Pretty ice-and-snow suits of white 

His Wife.— Girl of thirteen, j Canton flannel and swan's-down 
trimming, sprinkled with silver powder, and silver wands. 

Jack O'Lantern. — Agile boy of twelve, in tight-fitting fancy or 
Jester's suit. 

The Fairy Bountiful.— Girl of sixteen; fancy white dress, 
wings, and spangles, silver wand. 




Red Riding-hood's Wolf. — Boy of sixteen, in fur robe or coat, 
with wolf's-head mask, and movable jaws, if possible. 

The Big Bugaboo. — Tall youth of sixteen or eighteen, with 
demon's mask or some ugly face. Dressed in close-fitting red suit. 

The Whooping-cough Man. — Boy of sixteen, doubled and 
bent, with basket and crook, whitened face, and light clothes. 

The Wandering Jew. — Big boy in old black suit, shocking 
bad hat, and bag full of "old clo'es." 

DlCK. — A bright boy of fourteen. 

Ethel. — A bright girl of twelve. 

Curly-locks. — A pretty little girl of six or eight. 


[As the curtain rises, the children rush in pell-mell, singing; 
j* Moderate, 


Ho ! for us ; 



7)1 ft 



Please clear the way for us, las- sie and lad. 

Christmas has come, and we children are glad ; 





— 1 — 1 

25-*— *-?-£— E- 

£=£=^ : £- 


Christ-mas has 

:ome, and we chil 


dren are 



mf$ f-£- 

■S- -*- -*, 

p* ! 1 — 


js n 

S2_J — [_ l__j_i 

fc— LJ- 

| 1 — 

chorus of indulgent parents (in audience). 
Shout it out ! Sing it out! Clear voices ring it out! 

Ring out your glee, every lassie and lad. 
Under the holly, now, sing and be jolly, now ; 

Christmas has come and the children are glad ! 


Hurry all! Scurry all! We 're in a flurry all! 

We 're in a flurry, with happiness mad. 
Gayly we sing to you ; welcomes we bring to you ; 
Christmas has come and we children are glad ! 
[Enter Mr. Moneybags, account-book in hand. He shakes his 

hst at children, and says, sharply: 
Moneybags. What a rumpus ! What a clatter ! 

Why, whatever is the matter ? 
All this rout and shout and riot is distracting to my 

You 've disturbed my computations 
With your singing and gyrations, 
And you 've mixed my figures up so, I must add 'em 

all again. 
Ethel. Oh, stupid Mr. Moneybags, where are your 

senses, pray, sir ? 
Dick. Why, don't you know — of course you do — 

that this is Christmas Day, sir ? 

Curly-i.ocks. 'Tis Christmas, sir — the children's day ! 

Ethel, Dick, and Curly-locks (shaking their fingers). 

And please to understand — 

All the Children. We 're waiting here for Santa 

Claus to come from Somewhereland. 

chorus of indulgent parents. 

Don't scold them, Mr. Moneybags, for, please to under- 
They 're waiting here for Santa Claus to come from 

Moneybags (much disgusted). 

For what ? For who ? For Santa Claus ? 

'T is past my comprehension 
That, in this nineteenth century, 

Such foolishness finds mention ! 
For Santa Claus ? No bigger fraud 

Has ever yet been planned ! 
There is n't any Santa Claus, 
Nor any Somewhereland ! 
[Consternation among the children. 



Ethel (indignantly). 

Oh, wicked Mr. Moneybags, how can you be so cruel! 
Dick (pathetically). Why, Christmas without Santa 

Claus is weak as watered gruel ! 
Ethel and Curly-locks (sorrowfully). 

We can't believe you ! 
Dick (vehemently). And we wont ! 
Ethel, Dick, Curly-locks (with warning finger). 

So, please to understand — 
All the Children (vociferously). We 're waiting 
here for Santa Claus to come from Somewhereland. 

chorus of indulgent parents. 

They can't believe you, and they wont, for, please to 

They 're waiting here for Santa Claus to come from 

Moneybags (aside). 

It seems to me it would be wise 

To stop this superstition ; 
To open these young eyes to fact 

Would be a useful mission. 
So I '11 devise a little scheme, 

And try it, if I 'm able, 
To bring these folks to common sense, 
And burst this foolish fable. 
(Aloud. Well, good-bye, youngsters; now I'm off! 
I really can not stand 
This trash you talk of Santa Claus 

Who comes from Somewhereland. [Exit. 
Dick (turning to children, with uplifted hands). 

No Santa Claus ? 
The Children (lifting hands in dismay). No Santa 

Claus ! 
CURLY-LOCKS (tearfully). I never did — did you ? 
Ethel (to children, hands lifted). No Santa Claus ! 
The Children (lifting hands solemnly). No Santa 

Claus ! 
All (in audible tears). Boo-hoo, boo-hoo, boo-hoo ! 
Ethel (spitefully). I just believe lie 's telling fibs. 
Dick (surlily). Of course! 
Ethel (dejectedly). It seems to me, 

This horrid Mr. Moneybags 
Is mean as mean can be ! 
Dick (decidedly). Of course he's fibbing. 
Curly-locks (indignantly). 'Course he is. 
Ethel. He does it just to tease us. 
Dick. He's down on children; so, you see, 

He never wants to please us. 
Curly-locks (anxiously). Oh, dear! why does n't 

Santa come ? 
Dick. Let 's wish him here. 

The Children (incredulously). That 's — quirky ! 
Dick (stoutly). 'Taint! Ethel saved a wish-bone up, 

From last Thanksgiving's turkey. 
Children. All right! Who '11 pull it? 
Ethel (producing the wish-bone). Dick and I. 
Dick (examining it). It 's dry enough. Say " when," 

boys. Catch hold here, Ethel — wish! 
The Children. Now, pull ! 

[Dick and Ethel snap the wish-bone. 

Ethel. Dick 's got the lucky end, boys ! 

CHORUS OF CHILDREN. (Try, /or air, " Nelly B/y." ') 

Come to us, come to us, here as we sing ; 
Come to us, come to us, Christmas bells ring. 
Come to us quickly — nor loiter, nor pause ; 
Come to us, come to us, old Santa Claus ! 


Santa Claus! Santa Claus! Jolly old Saint; 
Hark to them ! Hear to them ! List to their plaint. 
Broken the wish-bone ! All wistful they stand, — 
Come to them, Santa Claus, from Somewhereland ! 

[A loud clang and clash outside. Enter, with double somersault or 
long jump, Jack O'Lantern. The children start, amazed. 

Jack O'Lantern (with comic posture). Who calls for 
Santa Claus, I 'd like to know ? 

Ethel (surveying him cutiously). We, Mr. — India- 
rubber ! 

Jack O'Lantern (laughing derisively). Ho, ho, ho! 

[Turns a double somersault, or some other nimble contortion, and, 
striking a comical attitude, says : 

With a clash and a clang, and a rattle-te-bang, 

And a bumpitv-jump rather risky, 
With a jounce and a bounce, Santa Claus I announce ! 
I 'm his page, Jack O'Lantern so frisky. 
See where he comes; stand all here close at hand, 
Enter ! Sir Santa Claus of Somewhereland ! 

["Enter Moneybags as the False Sir Santa Claus, dressed in full- 
dress suit, as indicated in costume directions. The childreo 
start back, surprised at seeing a person so different from their 
idea of Santa Claus in dress and appearance. Moneybags 
surveys them through his eye-glass, sourly. 

Moneybags (gruffly). Heigho, there, you youngsters ! 

Well, how do you do? FI'm — what did you say? 

Ethel (timidly). Oh, we only said O0-00-00 ! 


Well, why this surprise ? Why this staring and stir ? 

Curly-locks (showing him her toy book). 

We looked for that kind of a Santa Claus, sir. 
Moneybags (taking book and examining it critically 

through eye-glass). 
Hey ? what kind ? Oh, that ! Ah ! permit me to look ; 
Why, Santa Claus, child, does n't live in a book ! 

[Reading quickly. 

H'm — " little old driver" — Pshaw ! — " sleigh full of 

toys " — 
"Down the chimney" — that 's nonsense, you know, 

girls and boys. 
[Reading again. 
" He was dressed all in furs, from his head to his foot, 

And his clothes were all tarnished with ashes and 
soot ; 

A bundle of toys he had flung on his back, 

And he looked like a pedlar just opening his pack. 

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow, 

And the beard of his chin was as white as the snow; 

And the stump of a pipe he held tight in his teeth, 

And the smoke it encircled his head like a wreath. 

He had a broad face " 

Oh, that 's nonsense, I say : 
I have n't looked that way for many a day! 
I dress in the fashion ; I 'm solemn in speech, 
And detest all the folly that fable would teach. 




I hate to be bothered with children and toys, 

And I'm "down' 1 on this Christmas Day worry and 

Ethel (anxiously). And your sleigh? — 
DlCK {dubiously). And your reindeer? — 

Moneybags. All sold — long ago. 

They were quite out of date — too old-fashioned and 

What with steam-ships and railways and telegraph wires, 
And stores overcrowded with sellers and buyers, 
And modern improvements in every land, 
There 's no use for Santa Claus, now ; — understand ? 
[Sings. ( Try "The Campbells are Coming." ) 
I 'm a thrifty old merchant, who lives at the Pole ; 
A sleep-loving, ease-loving, saving old soul ; 
I 'm healthy and wealthy and wise, now, because — 
I 've done with the nonsense of old Santa Claus ! 
Children (singing, poutingly). 

He's a selfish old merchant, who lives at the Pole; 

A. skinflint old miser, as mean as a mole ; 

But he '11 never succeed, if he tries to pick flaws 

In the joys of the children — this old Santa Claus ! 

Indignant Parents (singing, snappishly). 

He 's a heartless old merchant, who lives at the Pole ; 

For his comfort and ease, he would barter his soul. 

Come away from him, children ; don't trust him, 

because — 
He 's a fraud and a miser — this old Santa Claus! 
Moneybags (bowing low, in mock humility). 

Thanks for your compliments, kind friends, indeed ; 
I '11 not forget your praises ; 

'T is pleasure rare to hear and heed 

Such kind and courtly phrases. 

But this I know — you '11 soon, with speed, 
Give up these Christmas crazes. 

DlCK (emphatically). Well, is n't this dreadful ? 

Ethel (tearfully). Oh, dear, I could cry ! 

Moneybags (threateningly). 

You 'd better leave that for the "sweet by and by." 

If there 's one thing I hate, in this bedlam appalling, 

It is to hear children a-screaming and squalling. 

So, if you attempt it, I know what to do ! — ■ 

Curly-locks (anxiously). Oh, what does he mean ? 

Ethel. I don't know. 

All the Children (vociferously). Boo-hoo-hoo! 

Moneybags (wrath fully). 

What ho, there ! Hallo, there ! My trusty police ; 

These children are cranky — this nonsense must cease. 

Come in here, my beauties, these children to tell 

Sir Santa Claus knows how to manage them well. 

[Enter the False Four, one by one. Consternation on the part of 
the children. Moneybags checks them off as they enter. 

Here 's Red Riding-hood's Wolf! 
Here 's the Big Bugaboo ! 
Here 's the Whooping-cough Man ! 
Here 's the Wandering Jew ! 
Are n't they sweet ? What 's the matter ? You 

quiver and quake so ; 
One would think you were frightened, to see you all 
shake so. 

DlCK. What horrid, ugly people ! 

Ethel. Did you ever, ever see 

Such dreadful folks invited to a lovely Christmas Tree ? 

Moneybags. Speak up, my gentle serving-men, and 

tell these children, now, 
What parts you play on Christmas Day — and when 

and where and how. 
Red Riding-hood's Wolf (snappishly). 

I 've great big Ears, and I 've great big Eyes, 

And I 've great big Teeth, because — 
Oh, yes, you 've heard the story before — 
Just look at these beautiful jaws ! 

[Opening mouth very wide. 

The Big Bugaboo (solemnly). 

I 'm the Big Bugaboo ! And I live in the dark, 

With my grin and my club. And I wish to remark, 

I know all the bad boys, and I 'm looking at you/ 

So, don't you forget I 'm the Big Bugaboo ! 

The Whooping-cough Man (asthmatically). 

I 'm the Whooping-cough Man, yes, I am — I am — 

I 'm the Whooping-cough Man so breezy; 
And the bad boys I fill, yes, I will — I will — 

With my choke and my strangle so sneezy. 
And the little girls, too, yes, I do — I do — 
If I find them at all uneasy, 
Why — I take their breath off 
With the cough — the cough. 
I 'm the Whooping-cough Man so wheezy. 
The Wandering Jew (seductively). 
" Old clo'es ! Old clo'es ! Cash paid for old clo'es ! " 

I sing through the streets of the city, 
And the people they bring every ragged old thing 
When they hear the sweet strains of my ditty. 

But the bad girls and boys, if they make too much noise, 
Or if words with their betters they bandy, 
Why, I ups with their heels, 
And I smothers their squeals 
In my bag of "old clo'es," so handy! 
[More consternation among the children. 

Moneybags (alluringly). 

They sometimes give Boxes at Christmas, you know, 

Instead of the Stockings and Trees. 

A nice Christmas Box would be jolly to show — 

You each shall have one, if you please. 

Come, gather around me, and I will explain. 

[The children draw near in anticipation. 

My meaning I '11 make very clear : 

If children are cranky, I don't speak again, 
But give them — a Box on the ear ! 

[Tries one on Dick, with bewildering effect. The children retreat in 
dismay, and sing dolefully : 




Dismal, dole-ful chil-dren. Doleful children 


r- -f-T -f- 


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He is such an aw-ful, hor-rid San - ta 


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Worried, flurried parents, worried parents, we ! 

Pleasure's sun is clouded, gloomy is our glee. 
Christmas ends in crying, hopes are dashed, because - 

He is such a horrid, hateful Santa Claus ! 

Please to go, please to go, please to go, because — 

You 're not what they looked for in old Santa Claus ! 
What ! Go ? Ah, no — the children want me badly, 

The darling, snarling, doleful little dears ; 
If I should leave, I know they'd miss me sadly; 

I know they love me, so I '11 spare their tears. 

What! Go? Ah, no — not while I 've strength to 

stand ; 

Why, I'm Sir Santa Claus of Somewhereland ! 

The False Four (in derisive chorus). 

What ! Go ? Ah, no — not while we 've strength to 

stand ; 
Why, he 's Sir Santa Claus of Somewhereland ! 
Jack Frost and his Wife (singing behind scenes). 

Out from the kingdom of ice and of snow, 

Rollicking, frollicking, frisking we go; 

Rollicking, frollicking, singing in glee ; 

Oh, who so merry and cheery as we ? 

Clear rings our song, all the day long, 

All the glad Christmas Day, Christmas Day long. 

Shout the gay glories of Christmas so grand ; 

Shout for old Santa Claus of Somewhereland ! 

[Monevbags and the False Four start in surprise at the sound of 
this singing, and look at each other anxiously. 


Say, who be these that sing so blithe and free ? 

Quick, Jack O'Lantern, find this out for me ! 
Jack O'Lantern (reluctantly). 

Excuse me, I beg ; I 'm suspicious of dangers, 

And it ruffles my nerves, sir, to interview strangers. 
Jack Frost and his Wife (singing nearer). 

Racing and chasing, from sunset to light, 

Painting the windows with traceries bright ; 

Dancing with sunbeams, all sparkle and life, 

Oh, who so gay as Jack Frost and his Wife ? 

Oh, who so gay, all the glad day, 

All the glad Christmas, the glad Christmas Day? 

Shout the gay glories of Christmas so grand ; 

Shout for old Santa Claus of Somewhereland ! 

[Jack O'Lantern clutches Moneybags by the arm and drags him 
to the front, saying, hurriedly and emphatically : 

Jack Frost and his Wife, sir, 
Oh, run for your life, sir ! 
They '11 stir up a strife, sir, 

And interview you. 
They 're Santa Claus folks, sir, 
Have done with your jokes, sir ! 
You '11 be pinched and poked, sir — 
And frost-bitten, too ! 
Moneybags (defiantly). Pshaw! Who's afraid? Here 
on my rights I '11 stand ! 
I am Sir Santa Claus of Somewhereland ! 
[Enter Jack Frost and his Wife, briskly. 
Jack Frost. 

How are you, youngsters ? Full of fan and life ? 

I am Jack Frost 

His Wife. And I 'm his loving wife. 

Jack Frost (looking at the children anxiously). 
What 's the matter ? where are your shouts of glee ? 
Where 's Santa Claus ? And where 's your Christmas 




Dick (ruefully). There '11 be no tree 

Ethel (dolefully). And Christmas glee is o'er. 

Curly-locks (with a great sigh). 

Oh, Mr. Jack ! Christmas will come no more. 
Jack Frost. Why, who says that, you curly little elf? 

Oh, don't you know ? Old Santa Claus himself ! 
Jack Frost (looking all around). 

Old Santa here ? Where ? Not among that band ! 
Dick (pointing to Moneybags). There ! 
Moneybags (pompously). 

I am Sir Santa Claus of Somewhereland ! 
Jack Frost. 

You? Well, I guess not! You, sir? Oh, no, no! 

That 's a good joke ! You Santa ? Ho, ho, ho ! 

There, that will do ! Be off, now ! Scatter ! Pack ! 
Jack's Wife. 

We get away ? I guess not ! Will we, Jack ? 
Jack Frost (dancing derisively before Moneybags). 

No, not for such a fat old fraud as you ! 
[Then to children. 

This False Sir Santa Claus is fooling you ! 

Quick, now, my good policemen, clear them out ! 

I will not have such vagabonds about. 
The False Four (closing around Jack and his Wife). 
Move on, now! Come — move on! You 're in the 

way here ! 
JACK Frost (with hand to ear, sarcastically). 
I 'm just a little deaf. What 's that you say, here ? 
The Whooping-cough Man (grasping Jack Frost's 

arm roughly). Move on, I say! 

[Jack Frost touches him with his wand.] Ah ! 
Jack Frost (slyly). Well, now, what 's the matter ? 
Dick (touching the Whooping-cough Man, who is 

motionless as a statue). He 's frozen stiff! 

[Jack Frost suddenly touches the Big Bugaboo with his wand. 
The Big Bugaboo. Oh, how my teeth do chatter! 
[He also stands motionless and stiff. 
Ethel. Oh, see there, Dick ! Feel him ! 
DlCK. He 's frozen, too. 

Jack Frost. 

Jack's magic wand froze the Big Bugaboo ! 
Jack's Wife. 

They both are frozen up. Too stiff to wink ; 

They '11 let us stay here now awhile, I think ! 
Ethel (pointing to Moneybags). 

But is n't he Santa Claus ? 
Jack Frost. He ? Bless you, no ! 
Moneybags. H'm ! how will you prove it? 
Jack Frost. That 's easy to show. 
Moneybags. Well, show it ! 
Jack Frost. I will, sir! I will — don't you fret! 
Jack's Wife. 

Oh, F'alse Sir Santa Claus, we '11 beat you yet ! 
Moneybags (snapping his fingers contemptuously). 

What can you do ? 
Jack Frost. Oh, quite enough, I think ; 
We '11 do enough, I know, to make you shrink. 
I '11 summon up each fairy, gnome, and elf, 
I '11 call — I '11 call old Santa Claus, himself ! 

I '11 tell him — no — for first, I '11 stop this strife, 
Or we will (wont we, dear?) Jack Frost and Wife! 

[They rush with their magic wands to Red Riding-hood's Wolf 
and the Wandering Jew, who are at once frozen to statues and 
stand stiff and rigid. Jack O'Lantern runs off- 

DlCK. Hey ! The Wandering Jew 's frozen stiff as a 

stake ! 
Ethel. So \s Red Riding-hood's Wolf! What nice 

statues they make ! 
All the Children (exultantly). 

And now, hip, hurrah ! Let Jack go, if he can, 
For this horrible, terrible Santa Claus man ! 

[Jack Frost and his Wife, dancing around Moneybags, pinchand 
poke him, while he winces and dodges and shivers and the 
children jump for joy. 

Jack Frost and his Wife. (Try, for air, "Grand- 
father's Clock.") 

We '11 nip his nose and tweak his toes, 

With cold he 'II shake and shiver ; 
We '11 twinge his ears and freeze his tears, 

Until he '11 quake and quiver. 
We '11 cover him nice with a coat of ice, 

While he '11 shiver and sneeze and stumble ; 
No Santa Claus he ! A fraud he must be : 
He 's nothing but glitter and grumble. 
Moneybags (aching with cold). 

Br-r-r! Oo-oo-oo ! I'm cold! Oh, hold there, hold r 
Do save me from this ice man. 
Ah, boo — I freeze! My nose! My knees! 
Do stop it — there 's a nice man! 

[Enter Jack O'Lantern, hastily, with a stick, painted to look like 
a red-hot iron bar. 

Jack O'Lantern. 

Here 's a red-hot bar I 've brought, sir ; 
Heat will thaw you — so it ought, sir; 
Now I '11 try what heat will do, sir. 

[Pokes Moneybags with the bar. That 's for you ! 

[Lays it on Jack Frost's back. And that 's for you, sir ! 

MONEYBAGS (jumping -with pain, but relieved). 

Ouch ! that 's better — what a pelting ! 
Jack Frost (growing limp and drooping, as the hot iron 
thaws him out). 

Wifey, quick ! I 'm limp and melting ! 

Come, with magic wand revolving; 

Here 's your Jacky fast dissolving ! 
Jack's Wife. 

Courage, Jacky, here I come, dear; 

My ! you 're getting thin and numb, dear. 

There ! I '11 stop this in w trice, sir : 
[Touching Jack O'Lantern with her wand. 

Jack O'Lantern, turn to ice, sir! 
[Jack O'Lantern becomes a frozen statue. Noise of sleigh-bells 
heard, and then Santa Claus is heard shouting, behind 

Santa Claus (outside)., 

"Now, Dasher I Now, Dancer I Now, Prancer and 
Vixen ! 
On, Comet! On, Cupid! On, Divider and Blitzcn ! 
To the top of the porch, to the top of the wall, 
Now, dash away! dash away! dash away, all!" 

[The children listen, amazed and delighted. 





(Try tlie "Galop" from " Gitstavus.'.' ) 

Hark! we hear the jangle, jingle; 
Hark ! we hear the tangle, tingle ; 
Hear the jingle and the tingle of the sleigh-bells sweet 
and strong. 

Welcome, welcome, rings our greeting ; 
Joyful, joyful, is the meeting; 
Sweet the greeting and the meeting, sing the welcome 
loud and long. 

Jingle, jangle, tingle, tangle, 
Christmas joy shall know no pause. 

Tangle, tingle, jangle, jingle, 
Welcome to you, Santa Claus ! 


Jingle, jangle, tingle, tangle, etc. 
Santa Claus (entering with a rush., shaking snow off) . 

Hello! Merry Christmas! I hope I 'm on time! 
With the rivers I cross and the mountains I climb, 
With the roofs that I scale and the chimneys I drop 

By the day after Christmas I 'm ready to flop down. 
But what if I do get so tired with trotting ? 
Your joy gives new strength for my planning and 

My reindeer are fleet, and — Hello ! What 's the 

matter ? 
Something's wrong here — or else I'm as mad as a 

hatter ! 
Why is Mr. Jack Frost, there, so slimpsy and droopy ? 
Who are these funny statues so cold and so croupy ? 
Why are not all these little folks happy and hearty ? 
And — well — bless my stars! Who's that pompous 

old party ? 
Moneybags (advancing). 

I am Sir Santa Claus of Somewhereland ! 
Santa Claus (quizzing him). 

Ho ! are you ? Well, old fellow, here 's my hand ! 

So you 're Sir Santa Claus ? Well — by the by — 

If you are he — why, bless me ! Who am I ? 
Moneybags (loftily). 

I have no doubt, sir, you 're some low impostor. 
Santa Claus. Well, come, that 's friendly ! I '11 look 
up the roster. 

But, still, — I think, — as far as I am able, 

I 've been old Santa Claus since the days of fable. 

How is it, little folks ? We '11 leave to you 

To say which is the False one — which the True? 
Dick (decidedly). Oh, you 're the true one! 
Curly-locks. Certain sure ! 

Santa Claus (inquiringly.) Because? — 

Ethel. We know that he 's the False Sir Santa Claus. 
Santa Claus. 

Well, well; that's logic! Then, by your decree, 

What shall the sentence of this culprit be ? 
Dick (vindictively). Let 's tar and feather him ! 
Ethel. And freeze him, too ! 

Santa Claus. 

Well, little Curly-locks, and what say you ? 

Curly-locks (reflecting). 

He 's been so dreadful naughty, I should say 
It 's best to make him good again to-day. 
If we are good to him, why, don't you see, 
He '11 have a chance to try and gooder be ? 
Santa Claus. 

Why, bless you for a rosy little saint ! 
You 've found the cure that 's best for his complaint. 
What, Mr. Moneybags, shall your answer be, 
Now that you 've heard this little maid's decree ? 
Do you appreciate the magnanimity 
Extended you by this small judge in dimity ? 
Moneybags (dropping humbly on one knee before 

I 'm conquered completely, as you may see, 

And I bow to your gentle sentence; 
And I humbly beg, on my bended knee, 

Your pardon — with true repentance. 
I have beea such a horrible, cross old bear, 

With never a soul above dollars; 
But I promise you now, if my life you spare, 

To be one of your happiest scholars. 
Hereafter my days shall have more of glee ; 

With the children I '11 frolic and roam, ma'am, 
And I '11 give one-half of my fortune, free, 
To the Destitute Children's Home, ma'am. 
Santa Claus (clapping him on the back). 

Bravo ! Now joy-bells ring out clear and free ; 
Come with me, children ! To the Christmas Tree ! 

[Enter the Fairv Bountiful, with a hurst of music. All stand 

The Fairy Bountiful. 

One moment tarry, ere, with wonders sweet, 

The tree shall make your Christmas joys complete. 

One thing remains : List, while I tell to you 

What Fairy Bountiful would have you do. 

In the old days, when Valor, Truth, and Right 

Would fight the Wrong and conquer wicked Might, 

The champion brave his sure reward would see, 

And, by his king or queen, would knighted be ; 

And, as his shoulders felt the royal blade 

Give the glad stroke they called the " Accolade," 

These welcome words came, as his guerdon due : 

" Rise up, Sir so-and-so, good knight and true ! " 

Without old Santa Claus, the children's fun 

At Christmas-tide could never be begun. 

In their glad hearts the champion he '11 stand — 

Their good old friend, who comes from Somewhereland. 

Let, then, the title that this False one bore 

Come to the True, with love in goodly store. 

Kneel down, old Santa Claus, while with ready blade 

Sweet Curly-locks shall give the " Accolade ! " 

[Santa Claus kneels before Curlv-locks, who touches him lightly 
on the shoulder with the Fairy's wand. 


Good Knight and True ! Dear to the girls and boys, 

Friend of their fun and helper in their joys, 

Receive this honor from the children's hand. 

" Rise up, Sir Santa Claus of Somewhereland ! " 

Santa Claus (rising). 

Thanks, thanks to you, Curly-locks gentle and true ; 

Thanks all, girls and boys, for this honor from you. 

7 2 



I '11 be loyal and leal to your joyous young cause. 

Health and wealth to you all ! says your friend Santa 

Now, rally all, rally all, rally with me, 

Round the wonders and sights of the bright Christ- 
mas Tree, 

Give a cheer and a shout and a chorus, because — 

We have routed and conquered the False Santa Claus ! 

[During the chorus that follows, in which the parents should join, 
the curtain or doors should slowly open and disclose the Christ- 
mas Tree, around which the children, with Santa Claus at their 
head, should march as they sing: 


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his castle in Somewhereland. 

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While Christmas-tide comes with its laughter and glee, 
Our hearts shall keep green as the holly, 

If there in the circle with smiles we may see 
Old Santa Claus merry and jolly. 

Chorus : Then ring out, etc. 
Then 'round the glad Christmas-tree rally with joy , 

Let Love's happy sun shine in gladness ; 
Sing it out, every girl, sing it out, every boy, 
Old Santa Claus banishes sadness. 
Chorus : Then ring out, etc. 



THE STORY OF ROB.— Told by his Little Mamma. 

Rob is my boy doll. No-bod-y knows what he says but me. Rob 
ran a- way one day — when he was young-er than he is now — and he was 
gone a long time. I was a-fraid he would nev-er come back ; and Pa-pa 
went out one day and brought home Nee-na. Nee-na is a ba-by-doll, 

with-out an-y hair ; but 
she has blue eyes like 
Rob's, and is just too 
sweet for an-y-thing. 
One day it was my 
birth-day, and I had 
a birth-day par-ty, and 
we had real dish-es, 
and I poured the tea, 
same as Mam-ma does ; 
and the door-bell rang, 
and who do you think 
was there? 

It was Rob, come 
home ! And he had on 
a Scotch cap and an Ul- 
ster coat. Yes, and he 
had a car-pet bag, too, 
and there he stood in 
the hall, look-ing up at 
me, and hold-ing out 
his arms. He had come 
to my birth-day par- 
ty, just as Pa-pa said 
he would. Oh, how 
splen-did he looked, 
and how glad I was to 
see him ! And when 
he saw Nee-na he was 
glad, and I knew he 
would nev-er run a- way an-y more. And now he stays home ev-er-y day and 
helps nurse his sis-ter, and he is a good boy. Not a speck of naugh-ty 
in him. This is a true sto-ry, and here is Rob tak-ing care of Nee-na. 





One of my birds overheard a queer conversation 
between the Deacon and the dear Little School- 
ma'am the other day. They evidently were over- 
joyed about something, he says, for they constantly 
enlivened each other with interruptions, and neither 
seemed to care one bit. 

" Like it ?" exclaimed the Deacon, "like it? Of 
course they '11 like it ! They '11 be wild over it ! 
Who ever saw a sensible boy or girl that would n't 
like such a colored front " 

But just here the Little School-ma'am broke in 
excitedly: "Yes, and then that tide-mill that 
Mr. Trowb " 

But the Deacon, who barely allowed her to 
finish a single sentence, immediately asserted : 
" Yes, yes ! Splendid ! And then there 's the 
Veto story " 

" Yes ! And oh, the Cloth-of-Gold, you know ! " 
exclaimed the dear little woman, "and " 

And so they went on in a way that would have 
made me think my poor bird's head was turned by 
some unhappy accident, if I had not happened to 
overhear one or two such conversations myself, in 
previous years, between the two good folk he told 
me of. And I always found, too, that every such 
talk predicted some happy event for you and me 
in the pages of St. Nicholas; and that 's the 
reason I tell you in advance about this one. I 
have n't the slightest idea why a boy or girl should 
like a colored front, nor who Mr. Trowb is, nor how 
he is going to grind a tide, nor what a veto story is, 
but I do know that whenever the Deacon and the 
Little School-ma'am have a jubilant talk in the style 
described by my bird-reporter, it 's a sign of the 
fairest kind of weather in the St. NICHOLAS sky. 
So be on the look-out, my hearers, and send me 
word promptly of any new developments. For it 's 
my opinion that there 's a good time coming. 


The dear Little School-ma'am, who is much 
interested in the St. Nicholas Agassiz Associa- 
tion, tells me that it is growing very fast, and that 
many new Chapters or branch associations are 
forming in various parts of the country. This is 
good news. Natural history is what the Deacon 
calls a natural study, and I like to hear that 
thousands of boys and girls enjoy it so much 
that they have enrolled themselves under the 
banner of the St. N. A. A. St. Nicholas tells 
you about the Association in the Letter-box 
every month, and all that your Jack wishes to speak 
of here is the new Chapter that lately has been 
organized in Jackson, in the State of Michigan, by 
a nine-year-old boy, one Master Gridley. There 
is not a big boy in the Chapter, for the youngest, 
member is eight years old and the oldest eleven, 
but neither arc there any babies. Not they. 
They mean business. Already every little man of 
them has his badge of blue satin, and has accepted 
the excellent by-laws as drafted by themselves. 
Here are the by-laws : 

1st. Resolved, That we come here for instruction, and to learn 
everything that we can. 

2d. Resolved, That any person behaving badly shall be expelled 
from the Association. 

3d. Resolved, That any person who does not bring an answer to 
his question shall be expelled. 

4th. Resolved, That every person must pay the sum of five cents 
to become a member of the Association. 

5th. Resolved, That any person who wants to enter must receive 
a three-fourths vote. 


Dear Jack: I read in the newspaper yesterday an account of a 
wren and his little wife, who were forced, by a disagreeable odor, 
to move their nest, and it interested me so much that I want you to 
tell it to the other boys and girls. 

This wren lives in Virginia, and he and his wife hadjust finished a 
perfect little nest high in an eastern corner of the long portico of a 
farm-house. They seemed quite delighted with the result of their 
labors, when the farmer's wife happened to buy some asafcetida, 
which you know is one of the worst smelling things in the w r orld. To 
keep it out of the way, she leaned out of a window and stuck the 
package up under the eaves, close to the wrens' new abode, when — 
what do you think? — that knowing little pair of birds at once 
decided that they must move. For some days they were observed 
to be in a state of confusion, and at last some one, noticing their 
movements, discovered that they had carried their nest, twig by 
twig, away to the farther end of the portico, and in a more sheltered 
part, where the disagreeable odor could not reach them. 

Was not that wonderful ? — Your young friend, 

Marian D. R. 


" Yes, he dived at the flash," insisted the Dea- 
con, " and that is the way he dodged me, or rather 
dodged my shot. It was in Mr. Justus Hoyt's 
mill-pond in New Canaan, Conn., when I was a 
boy about thirteen years old. As I was passing 
the pond, with my gun in my hand, I saw a bird 
as large as a small duck sitting on the water, close 
to a bunch of thick bushes which grew on the 
bank. Here was a chance for a shot ! I thought 
I could get him to a certainty, for I saw that the 
bushes would hide me so as to allow me to creep 
up very close. I worked my way along carefully, 
and when 1 peeped through the leaves there he 
sat, not over ten yards from me, not having seen 
me at all. I put my gun quietly through, and took a 




steady aim. My shot struck the water in a circle of 
foam, exactly at the right place, but the bird was 
not there. Now, do you ask where he had gone ? 
That is it exactly; he had 'dived at the flash.' 
He went under so quickly that even the shot had 
not time enough to strike him. The thing is very 
wonderful, and I can not explain it, but I have 
seen it many times since I made that first shot 
when I was a boy, and I have watched the birds 
often when others have fired at them, and I have 
seen them escape, and they did it so rapidly that I 
could never tell how it was done. Because of this 
remarkable power they are commonly called water- 
witches. In books of ornithology their name is 
grebe : as horned grebe, crested grebe, etc. " 


Here is a charming bit of a letter (which the 
Little School-ma'am has picked out from many 
good ones) in answer to 
my questions " for the 
inquisitive," in the May 
number : 


Dear Jack I saw in the 
May number your questions for 
the inquisitive one was "how 
can a cat get down a tree" 
pussy has very sharp Claws 
which she sticks in the bark, 
her claws are also very strong: 
a little kitten can not get down 
a tree very well as its Claws are 
not very strong I put a little 
kitten up a tree and she came 
down backward a little way and 
then jumped. 

A dog can not come down a 
tree or go up because his nail 
are not shaped like that of a cat. 
My cousin had a little dog and 
he jumped up a tree about two 
yards high and landed in the 
crotch I remain your constant 
reader Manie H. 


Your Jack has just 
heard of a canary that 
had been trained to pro- 
nounce a number of sen- 
tences, closely imitating 
the voice of the lady 
who had been its in- 
structor. Invariably after 
such a performance, as 
though overjoyed at hav- 
ing accomplished some- 
thing difficult, the little 
creature would rush off HM 
into a perfect ecstasy of 
canary song, "tweet- 
ing" and trilling as though, after all, that was 
the only proper language for birds. An Eng- 
lish writer, 1 am told, thinks it is the want of 
"imitative impulse rather than any lack of the 
necessary mechanical apparatus which now limits 
the power of speech to parrots, ravens, jackdaws, 
and a few other birds." Other writers hold a 
different opinion. Meantime, my dears, while the 
learned people are discussing this matter, and call- 

ing the various parts of little birds' throats by the 
most astonishing Latin names that can be manu- 
factured, we should be thankful that more birds are 
not " imitative," for if they were we might lose a 
great many of the songs we love, and, in return, 
gain only a great deal of empty chatter. 


Thanks, young friends, for your clear and satis- 
factory answers to my question in the September 
number concerning the queer things with the slits 
in their backs. After this, nobody need try to tell 
your Jack anything more than he has learned from 
your letters concerning the locust and its strange 
habit of crawling out of its former self. 


Dear Jack : I send you with this, a picture of two animals that 
look like flowers. Their home is the bottom of the sea. The two 
tallest " blossoms " in the center of the picture represent the creature 


called by naturalists Rhizpcrimts loJfotciisis t and are copied from a 
specimen brought up by a dredge from a depth of 530 fathoms, or 
more than 3000 feet. The large lily-looking object at the right and 
the lower flower to the left of the drawing show another animal 
called Petltacrmits asteria. They live attached to the bottom of the 
sea. The "blossom " is the head, stomach, and body of the 3nimal. 
When the little marine creatures on which they feed come within reach 
of the arms that compose the lily, these arms close upon their prey, 
holding them imprisoned until they are devoured, when this queer 
" flower" again unfolds and moves its delicate stem, swayed by the 
gentle currents, just as an ordinary flower is swayed by the summer 
wind. Yours truly. D C. B. 

7 6 




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St. Nicholas in Arabic. 
Rev. Henry Harris Jessup, the missionary, when in this country 
a few years ago, suggested that many of the poems and rhymes in 
St. Nicholas could be translated into the Arabic language, and 
still retain much of their melody and rhythm. The publishers at 
once offered to supply any illustrations that would be needed for a 
book of such translations, and the result is a volume in Arabic with 
text and illustrations from St. Nicholas. It was printed in Beirut, 
Syria, and is perhaps the first illustrated book ever printed in that 
country, or in that language. The first copy was bound in Beirut, 
on the 14th of last June, and we here present to our readers a 
reduced fac-simile of one of its pages. 

We are sure that all our readers will welcome and admire the 
beautiful colored frontispiece, prepared expressly for this number of 
St. Nicholas, and we are glad to announce that Mr. Birch has 
made a companion picture, which is even finer, and which will 
appear as the frontispiece of our next number. That number will 
contain also several other exceptional features, as it is to be the 
Christmas issue, and the finest single number of St. Nicholas ever 

Hartford, Conn. 

Dear St. Nicholas: As I am always glad to get ideas for pres- 
ents, I thought perhaps some of your other readers might like to 
know how I made a very pretty "school-bag" for my little sister. 
I first cut out a piece of" Ada " canvas, eight by twenty inches, and 
worked a border around it, then lined it with farmer satin, olive-green 
it was, as the stitch was worked in that color (though almost any 
color would be pretty). I then braided some carpet thread of a 
color to match the canvas, and fastened it on for handles. Then I 
sewed the edges of the bag together. This is rather small, but it is 
easy to make larger. Initials, or a fancy pattern worked in the middle 
of one side, is a great improvement. I put initials. I have been 
out of school for two months now, as I 'm not well, and watch 
for St. Nicholas very eagerly. I have taken you for five years, and 
shall keep on as long as I can. Every Christmas my grandma gives 
me the three dollars to take you, and mamma has you bound. But 
X must not say any more, as this is a long letter for the first time. I 
must close now, as your very loving reader, Clara M. Cone, 

Thirteen and a half years. 

P. S. Please ask* the other readers to send a description of 
some pretty piece of work. 

Our thanks are due to Von Sothen for his courtesy in allowing 
us to reproduce in this number of St. Nicholas his wonderful 
instantaneous photographs of torpedo explosions. 


Dear St. Nicholas: My brother and I have taken you for a 
long time, and think you are splendid. I think it would be so nice 
for the subscribers who know how to make any pretty Christmas 
presents to write to St. Nicholas about them. I am sure if every- 
body has as much trouble to find something pretty to make as we 
have in this house, they would be very acceptable. 

Something very pretty, for a person who has plenty of time, is a 
random quilt. First, you want a large collection of silks, satins, 
velvets, etc. The blocks are about one foot square. To make the 
block, you embroider (with feather-stitch, etc.) the pieces of silk 
together; they may be of any size or shape or color. If a piece of 
silk is very large and plain, the effect is good to have a flower em- 
broidered or hand-painted on it. The blocks are fastened together 
by embroidery, and the whole quilt is lined with some bright-colored 
silk. It is very pretty for an afghan on a sofa. 

Your interested reader, May. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I want to tell you a funny thing about our 
little Mabel. When her father was having his house repaired, she 
had seen the men climbing high ladders, and when she asked where 
they were going, was answered, "To the roof." Not long after, 
Mamie's mamma took her to see Jumbo. She watched in silence, 
as one little pair of feet after another mounted the ladder to reach 
the huge creature's back, then, suddenly clapping her hands, she 
exclaimed: " Oh, Mamma ! See! see! They are sitting on Jumbo's 
roof!" C. A. G. 

Jane B. Haines sends to the "Letter-box" the following riddle: 

Day by day, I stand quite still ; 
But when a person, thirsting, 
Comes up and kindly shakes my hand, 
Out comes the water bursting. 
What am I ? 

Answer: A pump. 


This month begins the third year of the St. Nicholas Agassiz 
Association. The latest number on our register is 3S16, which 
shows that our membership has doubled during the year. We have 
now 336 Chapters on our list. We can not here afford space to ex- 
plain again the history and purpose of the Society, but must refer 
all who are interested to back numbers of the St. Nicholas, which is 
our organ of communication, and to the "Hand-book of the A. A.," 
which we have prepared specially to acquaint all with the full 
scope, plan, and history of our work. This book costs half a dollar, 
and al! orders for it, as well as all communications for this depart- 
ment, and all letters of inquiry, should be sent to Mr. Harlan H. 
Ballard, Principal of Lenox Academy, Lenox, Mass. The interest 
taken in nature by our boys and girls, from Maine to Texas, has 
been as gratifying as it has been surprising, and the assistance of 
their elders has been of great value. Since our latest report, the 
following new Chapters have been enrolled ; 

New Chapters. 




3 2 7- 
3 2 9- 
33 1 - 


Pelham, N. Y. (A) 
Peoria, 111. (C).... 

San Francisco, Cal. 
Madison, Wis. (A) 
Bryan, Ohio (A)... 
Georgetown, D. C 
Torrington, Ct. (A) 

Freeland, Pa. (A) 

Muscarine, Iowa (A) . . . 
Buchanan, Mich. (A).. 
Mt. Vernon, N. Y. (A) . 
Cedar Rapids, Iowa (B) 
New Orleans, La. (A) . 

Augusta, Me. (A) 

San Francisco, Cal. (F) 

Chappaqua, N. Y. (A) . 

San Jose, Cal. (A) 

Auburn, N. Y. (B).... 

■rs. Seeretary's Address. 

.Newbold Morris. 

J. A. Smith. 

.Wm. Breeze, 1330 Sutter St. 

.Andrews Allen, Box 141. 

. Miss Ethel Gillis. 

.C. L. Dunlop. 

J. F. Alldis, Box 165. 

. Samuel Caskey\ 

.Glenn A. Gordon. 

.William Talbot. 

.Miss Clara E. Bernstein. 

. C. R. Eastman. 

.Percy S. Benedict, 1243 St, 
Charles St. 

. Chapter, please send address. 

.Mrs. Helen Moore, 1336 Sa- 
cramento St. 

.M. Wright Barnum. 

. F. R. Gamier, Box 1S1. 

. E. L. Hickok, 13 Aurelius Av. 

Exchanges Desired. 

Franklinite, for carboniferous fossils, or the ores of tin or copper. 

— Miss Mary R. Ridgway, W. New Brighton, Staten Island, N. Y. 
Magnetic iron, shells from Scotland, and French buhr-stone. 

— Maude M. Lord, 75 Lamberton St., New Haven, Conn. 
Organ-pipe coral, and Tenney's " Geology," for a large and per- 
fect trilobite. — Bruce Richards, 1726 N. 18th St., Phila., Pa. 

Rare insects, for milberti, arthemis, semidea, nephele, portlandis, 
and J. -Album butterflies.— C. C. Beale, Faulkner, Mass., Sec. 
Chapter 297. 

Insects of all kinds, for lepidopterae. — Fred. A. Brown, Maiden, 
Mass., Pres. Chapter 207. 

Notes from Members. 

In response to our question about the Proteus, Denver (B) 
writes : 

It is generally found in dark, subterranean lakes. It bears some 
resemblance to the young of newts, having branchial tufts on each 
side of the neck. The animal is of a light flesh-color, which deepens 
on exposure to the air. 

[The proteus is one of the salamanders, closely related to the 
liredons. They are especially interesting because, even in their 
adult state, they resemble one of the transient forms of higher 

Can any one name a caterpillar which lives on evergreen trees? 
It carries its cocoon on its back. The cocoons have evergreen 
needles hanging down the sides. 

We now number five ; we have also one honorary member. We 
have separate collections instead of a general cabinet ; we have a 
microscope and books: we all live near Agassiz's Museum, and 
have made one excursion to it. We have decided to take note of 
all things we see concerning natural history. 

F. T. Hammond, Sec. Chap. 224. 

I caught a fly and killed it. Then I took my microscope and 
saw on its back, by the wings, a little red speck, and when I looked 
at it with my microscope carefully, I saw it had legs and was alive. 
Will some one please tell me what it was, and how it came there ? 
D. M. Perine, 26 Cathedral St., Baltimore, Md. 


T H E LET T E R - B O X . 


We are now filling up and trimming our room, making cases, 
and hunting up cabinets. We have added several varieties of rare 
butterflies and moths. Sec. Chap. 223. 

I have examined several hinds of pollen. I find it hard to deter- 
mine the exact shape of the grains. Several kinds appear oval, with 
a mark across which looks as if it were a sort of rut. 

While examining pollen from a cardinal flower (Lobelia cardi- 
nalis), it occurred to me to float some of the grains in water. The 
result was such a change of shape, which, beside, lasted only 
while the grains were wet, that I gjve up cardinal flowers in despair 

A Friend of the A. A. 

Mavport, Florida. 
Pilot-boat " Maggie 1!." picked up a stone in seventy-two feet of 
water, some three miles off the bar. The stone weighed about eighty 
pounds. It was covered with moss, sea-weeds, and varieties of living 
shell-fish. On one corner of the top was a branch of coral about a 
foot long, with several branches. I never before saw coral growing 
on such a stone. F. C. Sawyer. 

Copenhagen, N. Y. 
Last spring I sent specimens of prepared woods lo nearly one 
hundred persons. 1 have a few more, which I would like to ex- 
change- I will send one, to show method of preparation, on receipt 
of ten cents. I also offer for exchange a case large enough to hold 
twenty specimens of the woods. The early winter is the best 
time to cut woods, as the bark then adheres tightly. 

L. L. Lewis, Box 174. 

St. Clair, Pa. 
Some of us took an excursion to-day after " water creatures." We 
got some crabs, water-bugs, tadpoles, and two unknown species of 
water-insects, all in some tomato-cans. When we got home, we 
emptied them all into a little tub. One of the " unknown " began 
to show murderous proclivities by tearing up the tadpole. When 
this was taken from him, he attacked the water-bugs, so we re- 
moved him to a separate apartment. We wish to know ihe pirate's 
name. The other insects we did not know were long and narrow, 
with two bead-like eyes protruding far from the head. They had 
six long legs, the first pair of which pointed straight ahead, and were 
used to seize food. This food consisted only of flies, so far as we 
could observe. Our interesting collection is prospering finely. 

Geo. Powell, Sec. Chap. 266. 

Columbus, Ohio. 

We have a fine collection of insects. We have seven members, 
and meet every week. E. G. Rice, Sec. Chap. 307. 

Rome, N. Y., Aug. 20. 
The other day a curious nest was found fastened to the outside of 
a window. It was made of mud, and shaped much like a hornet's 
nest. On the outside, many small red spiders might be seen run- 
ning up and down. ■ The inside of the cell was divided into round 
cells, each of which contained a large yellowish-white grub, which 
was covered with thin skin, closely resembling, in color and text- 
ure, the' inside shell of a peanut. We desire information regarding 
this curious nest. City and Country. 

[The nest is the home of some species of wasp, probably Pelopte- 
us ftceuipes, or spirifer. I abridge from the Zoologist for 1S64, p. 582: 
"About this time" (Aug. iSth, see date above), " the other species 
of pclopasus began to be busy fabricating their nests. When a 
little more in length is finished than suffices for a single cell, an egg 
is laid and spiders are brought in." These spiders are for food for 
the grubs of the wasps when they shall appear. They are stung so 
as to be helpless, but not dead. Compare this with the way the 
"digger .vasp" treats caterpillars. The peanut-like skin was the 
pupal envelope, with regard to which Mr. Gosse made a curious 
discovery. The abdomen of the "dauber wasp" is supported on 
a very long and slender peduncle or foot-stalk. "Mr. Gosse," says 
Wood, "was naturally anxious li discover how the insect could 
draw the abdomen out of the pupal skin. He discovered that the 
pupal envelope did not sit closely to the body, but that it was as 
wide in the middle as at either end." " City and Country " could 
have learned all this by watching the insects. For extended details, 
see Wood's "Homes without Hands," p. 374.] 

San Francisco, Aug. 29, 1882. 
I have seen and eaten "squid," and know a little bit about them. 
The squid belongs to the cuttle-fish family. Some of them have 
eight arms, and some ten. One with eight arms is called an octo- 
pus. It is dangerous for a man to go alone to catch them, as they 
sometimes draw him under water. Some squids have an ink-bag, 
and when the contents are dried, sepia, used by artists, is obtained. 
Bertha L. Rowell, Sec. Chap. 296. 
[Answered also by Bruce Richards.) 

Stockport, N. Y., Sept. 8, 1882. 
On Friday, the 26th of last May, our teacher made a proposition 
of starting a branch of the " A. A." in our school. The attendance 

at the first informal meeting was seventeen, of whom fifteen joined. 
Three members have since been admitted. We hold our meetings 
in the school-house. We have a large number of specimens, but no 
cabinet. Willard J. Fisher, Sec. Chap. 286. 

[The School Committee of Stockport will undoubtedly furnish 
you a cabinet, if they understand what you are doing.] 

Sycamore, III., Sept. 9, 1882. 
I have a little beetle that must be first cousin to Stenacorus etnetus 

(of which I have a fine specimen). It is about an inch long, with a 
barrel-shaped thorax that has a little spine on each side and two 
little black dots above. Its " flashing dark eyes" are grooved for 
the admission of the antennae, which are long and many-jointed. It 
is distinguished by two white spots on each wing-cover. These are 
raised and shining, and divided through the middle. 1 can not find 
an account of it in Harris. Pansy Smith. 

[Who will name this curious beetle?] 

Pittsburgh, Pa., " D." 

Our chapter is progressing finely and increasing in membership 
every meeting. Please change the Secretary's address to 

GEOHGK R. West, 100 Diamond St., Sec. Chap. 298. 

Hotel du Signal, Switzerland. 
I thought you would like a specimen of the Edelweiss. It grows 
in large quantities under the snow. The people here gather it and 
make blankets of it. Harry Johnston. 

Music in the A. A. 

Flushing, L. I. 
I want to tell you bow much we enjoy our meetings. The sub- 
ject of the latest meeting was Mistletoe, and here is what was said 
about it. Mamma said, " The botanical name of the mistletoe is 
Viscrim album. In olden times it was thought to he poisonous, for 
Shakespeare speaks of the 'baleful Mistletoe.' The Druids used it 
in religious rites. It is a parasite, growing chiefly on apple-trees." 
Miss Scott had tasted the berry, which is sweet and glutinous. She 
painted me a lovely picture of mistletoe and holly- In the evenings 
when Papa is at home, we have music, and, if possible, pieces bearing 
on our subject; for instance, this evening we had a song entitled 
"The Mistletoe Bough," and an instrumental piece, the " Mistletoe 
Polka." Mamma plays on the violin, and I on the organ or piano. 
From your friend, F. M. II. 

Detroit, Mich. 
I read in a number of the Canadian Entomologist an interesting 
paper on "Nature-painted Butterflies." It was something like 
this. Cut off the wings close to the body of the butterfly. Next 
fold a piece of white paper in the middle. Cover the inside of the 
paper with a thin, clear solution of gum-arabic. Lay the wings care- 
fully on one-half of the paper, in their natural position, then fold 
the other half down upon them. Press it with your hand, and leave 
it to dry under a heavy weight, for some hours. When dry, draw a 
pencil line around the edges of the wings, then with a camel's-hair 
brush wet with water the paper outside the lines, being very careful 
not to wet it elsew/iere. Lastly, pull the two ends of the paperapart, 
and the scales will adhere to the paper, leaving a transparent mem- 
brane, which will fall out. Connect the wings by drawing a body, 
and then cut out the butterfly. Ch. A. Wiley, Sec. Detroit (A). 

The Oaks, Tioga Center, N. Y. 
I am nine, and my sister is five. We have examined a geranium- 
bug, and it is beautiful. Its body is green, and it has six legs that 
are clear like crystal. The antennae are longer than the insect, and 
are sometimes thrown backward. It has a long beak. The body 
has two horns at the end. The eyes are reddish brown, with tiny 
white dots. Angie Latimer, Sec. 

Bircham, Halifax, Nova Scotia. 
I live on the sea-shore and near woods. Last summer I caught a 
very large specimen of Lophius piscato-riits, and my father made a 
skeleton of it. It was caught in the rock-weeds, and when we put 
an oar at it, it caught it with its teeth. Helen W. Morrow. 

South Boston, Mass. 
On the outside of our school-house is a gong a foot in diameter. 
In this a pair of- sparrows (Passer domesiicus) built their nest and 
raised a brood this year. The gong has been rung about two dozen 
times a day. Have other members noticed a more curious place for 
a nest than this? H. E. Sawyer, Sec. Chap. 112. 

St. Paul, Minn., Sept. 9, 1S82. 
Dear Mr. Ballard : We had a few caterpillars, but they all took 
off their hair, and lay down in it and died. Frank Ramaley. 

[Don't bury them, Frank. Watch for their resurrection. They 
have probably not died, but only changed into chrysalids.] 

Philip C. Tucker, Jr., of Galveston, Texas, sends a long and 
interesting report on the squid, and requests us to correct an error, 
which occurred in the July report, in the spelling of his name. He 
also sends the following answer to F. R. Gilbert's first question : 

The Kuda Ayer, or Malayan tapir, is of a deep, sooty black color. 
It is larger than the American tapir, and inhabits deep woods by 
river-banks. It is extremely shy. 




I am composed of forty-five letters, and form a quotation from 
a book by George MacDonald. 

My 15-43-12-4 is a prong of a fork. My 23-13-6 is a busy little 
insect. My 5-20-19-28 is money. My 8-34-41-9 is a ballot. My 
45-10-38-14-26 is an apparition. My 31-7-20 is a wooden tub. My 
27-21-3-24-36-40 is a very small twist of flax or cotton. My 16-39- 
37 is a bulky piece of timber. My 42-17-32-11-30 is a kind of green 
tea. My 33-18-35 is a tree similar to the pine. My 1-2-44-22-25 
are sounds. E, j. carpenter. 


Across: i. A word chiefly used in driving off a cat. 2. Spoken. 

3. To decorate. 4. A delightful region. 

Downward: j. In Thanksgiving. 2. A term which may be used 
in designating several persons joined in partnership. 3. Dexterity. 

4. A weed that grows among wheat. 5. A cover. 6. Myself. 7. 
In Thanksgiving. J. s. tennant. 



Spiral Puzzle. The answer to this puzzle is a five-line verse, 
appropriate to the November holiday. The last line of the stanza 
is " Drops cider in the glasses " ; and the four remaining lines (con- 
sisting of nineteen words) are concealed in the spiral, These words 
may be found by taking every second letter in the spiral, after the 
one to begin with has been rightly guessed. G. f. 


My first is in thought, but not in mind ; 
My second in rough, but not in kind; 
My third is in laugh, but not in cry; 
My fourth is in corn, but not in rye; 
My fifth is in sack, but not in coat; 
My sixth is in sheep, but not in goat; 
My seventh in gig, but not in dray; 
My eighth is in fight, but not in fray; 
My ninth is in grove, but not in wood; 
My tenth is in mile, but not in rood; 
My eleventh in sturgeon, but not in shad; 
My twelfth is in gay, but not in sad; 
My whole ii a time to be grateful and glad. 



My first is in November ; my second is in February ; my third is 
in May; my fourth is in August ; my fifth is in June; my sixth is 
in September. 

My whole is the name of a well-known poet, who was born 
on November 3d. leather stocking. 


s. In Thanksgiving. 2. To place. 3. A tendon. 4. A military offi- 
cer. 5. Conditions. 6. Has been. 7. In festival. 


Across: 1. A cape with a hood. 2. Disclosures. 3. To repair. 
4. An abbreviation for one of the United States. 5. An abbrevia- 
tion for a British Province. 6. A vowel. h. and e. 


A Shakespearian Charade. Hamlet. 

He saw the Jirst upon a chopping block ('twas unprotected). 

He grasped the first and did not second go (act undetected). 

First and second show a play (by us selected). 

Patchwork, r. Let. 2. Lore. 3. Lumber. 4. Mass. 5. Leash. 
6. Launch. 7. Lapse. 8. Knead. 9. Lantern. 

Anagrammatical Spelling-Lesson, i. Cachinnation. 2. De- 
termination. 3. Justification. 4. Spontaneous. 5. Terrestrial. 6. 
Emancipation. Charade. Withwind. 

Double Acrostic. Primals, Franz; finals, Liszt. Cross-words: 

1. FestivaL. 2. Rabbi. 3. AtlaS. 4. NatcheZ. 5. ZealoT. 
Beheaded Rhymes. Trout, rout, out. Skill, kill, ill. Spray, 

pray, ray. Flit, lit, it. 

Single Acrostic. Quebec. Cross-words: 1. Q-uiet. 2.U-sual. 
3. E-lder. 4. B-ound. 5. E-mber. 6. C-ider. 

Hour-glass. Centrals, Vermont. Cross-words : 1. BraVado. 

2. BrEad. 3. IRe. 4. M. 5. LOg. 6. FaNcy. 7. PorTend. 
Half-square. i. Presidial. 2. Reviving. 3. Evading. 4. 

Sidles. 5. Ivied. 6. Dins. 7. (k)Ing. 8. Ag(ile). 9. L. 

Double Diagonal. Cross-words: 1. Her. 2. Ewe. 3. Ell. 

Metamorphoses, i. Fail, foil, foul. 2. Mute, mule, mile, milk, 
silk. 3. Floor, flood, blood, brood, broad, bread. 4. Wen, wan, 
way, wry, dry. 5. Cords, corps, coops, crops, cross, cress, crest, 
wrest, wrist, whist. 6. Heir, hear, pear, peas, pens, pins, wins, 
wigs. Cross-word Enigma, Emerson. 

Proverb Rebus. Experience keeps a dear school, but fools 
learn in no other. 

Cube. From 1 to 2, deluge; 2 to 6, endear; 5 to 6, runner; 1 
to 5, doctor; 3 to 4, Easter; 4 to 8, ransom ; 7 to 8, anthem ; 3 to 7, 
enigma; 1 to 3, dome : 2 to 4, ewer; 5 to 7, rhea ; 6 to 8, room. 




Trace a way through this maze, beginning at the circle containing the t 
last the middle circle. 

g, and then through the others successively, reaching at 

The names of those who send solutions are printed in the second number after that in which the puzzles appear. Answers should be 
addressed to St. Nicholas "Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth street, New York City. 

Answers to all of the Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 20, from " Professor and Co."- — 
R. H. F. — Bessie R. — Emma Honig and Kate Howard — John Pyne — Mama and Bae — O. C. Turner — Scrap — " S. Long Beach. S." 
— "Jumbo" — Fred H. Meeder — Annie E. Hixon — John C. and William V. Moses — Marie Faucompre — John W. Reynolds — "Two 
Subscribers " — Prometheus — " College Point " — " Ailsa" — Gertrude Lansing and Julia Wallace — David E. Ansbacher — Florence 
Leslie Kyte — Genie J. Callmeyer — Harry L. Reed — Clara J. Child. 

Answers to Puzzles in the September Number were received, before September 20, from Anna G. Baker, 14 — Elaine, 2 — 
Frank P. Nugent, 4 — Edith and Carrie Thompson, 1 — Charles N. Cogswell, 6 — Sidney Van Keuren, 1 — Blanche Haywood, 14 — Rosa 
Lottie Witte, 1 — Grade D. Smith, 7 — Sadie L. Rhodes, 3 — Florence E. Thompson, 6 — "Southampton Trio," ir — Charles Walton, 3 — 
"Two -Esthetic Maidens," 9 — Helen and Hattie, 1 — A. T. Losee, 13 — Haedus, 3 — Paul Gorham, 11 — Joe B. Sheffield, 2 — A. Louise 
Weightman and Julie P. Miller, 7 — George W. Barnes, 4 — Susie Dessalet, 3 — Fred E. Walton, 3 — Nellie K. Miner, 4 — Claude Duval, 1 

— "Cinderella," 2 — Maude R.. 3 — Philip De Normandie, 2 — Edith Buffington Dalton, 5 — Emile L. V. Cheron. 1 — John P. Conduit, 4 
— Nellie Caldwell, to — Mabel Thompson, 7 — Weston Stickney, 1 — " Capt. Jinks," 11 — Maud E. Benson, 4 — J. H. Ingersoll, 3 — Daisy, 
2 — Mary C. Burnam, 6 — Ehrick Rossiter Jones, 2 — D. S. Crosby, Jr., 12 — Efne K. Talboys, 13 — Louise Kelly, 10 — "Jinks and 
Dad," q — H. Revell, 1 — "Pewee," 5 — Grace Murray, 2 — Allie Close, 6 — Man' E. Baker, 5 — Helen R. and May D. Dexter, 14 — 
Rubv Frazer, 2 — Alice W, C, 14 — Paul England and Co., n — Vera, 13 — Roast and Pierce, 14 — " Alcibiades," 12 — " Patience," 9 — 
Willie H. Bawden, 14 — Arabella Ward, 3 — M. W. T., 3 — Donna Ruth and Samuel H. Camp, 7 — Frank G. Newland, 10 — Dolly 
Varden, 6 — Helen W. Merriam, 11 — Francis L. Bosqui, 3 — Bertie and Maud, 8 — Arthur Herbert Cuming, 2 — /Eon, 11 — "Jumbo," 5 

— Gertie E. Webb, 2 — Addie White, 14 — Gertrude and Florence, 11 — Marion and Daisy, 5 — Clara and her Aunt, 14 — Frank P. 
Midlam, 1 — Clarence H. Young, 14 — Minnie B. Murray, 12 — Shumwav, 14 — Algernon Tassin, 9 — " Flat Rock Campers," 11 — C. L. 
Slattery, 13 — Vin and Henry, n — Harry Johnston, 8 — Bolivar, 13 — Daisy, Violet, and Clover, 3 — T' W. T., 7 — Myrtle, 4 — Helen 
Ansbacher, 7 — Trask, 14 — Nellie Mott, 1 — Freddy Thwaits. 14 — James H, Strong, 10 — V. P. J. S. M. S. , 9 — Warren, 5 — Rosette 
et F£licite\ 12 — Madge Tolderlund, 4 — J. S. Tennant, 13 — P. Embury, Jr., 5 — Appleton H., 14 — Pernie, 12 — " Three Old Maids," 7 
— Jessie Miihlhauscr, 4 — A.Gardner, 11 — Mary Black and MaeB.Creighton, 10 — Standish McCIeary, 4 — Margarite, 2 — Lottie A. Foggan, 7. 



IN . THE -| \©RHlN( 

)f\yr . IN • inc -| nornIn^ • 

w --If* 

: . 



And t 

v .: 

ntei h; 


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- ra . shadow 
But V, 7 

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f the 

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■■ isomer* 




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Vol. X. 

DECEMBER, 1882. 


[Copyright, 1882, by The CENTURY CO.: 

By Susan Hartley. 

Oh, Summer has the roses 

And the laughing light south wind. 

And the merry meadows lined 
With dewy, dancing posies; 

But Winter has the sprites 

And the witching frosty nights. 

Oh, Summer has the splendor 
Of the corn-fields wide and deep, 
Where scarlet poppies sleep 

And wary shadows wander; 
But Winter fields are rare 
With diamonds everywhere. 

Oh, Summer has the wild bees, 
And the ringing, singing note 
In the robin's tuneful throat, 

And the leaf-talk in the trees ; 
But Winter has the chime 
Of the merry Christmas time. 

Oh, Summer has the luster 

Of the sunbeams warm and bright, 
And rains that fall at night 

Where reeds and lilies cluster; 
But deep in Winter's snow 
The fires of Christmas glow. 

VOL. X.— 6. 




By M. E. K. 

Aunt Ruth sat thinking. It was only a week 
before Christmas, and, as yet, no gift had been 
decided upon for her pet niece, who lived in a 
distant city. 

It was hard to know what to give Bessie — she 
seemed so well supplied with everything a little 
girl could want for comfort or pleasure. She was 
such a good child, and so unselfish, that she was a 
general favorite, and her friends, young and old, 
were always sending her some pretty trinket, until 
her own room was a kind of museum of love- 
tokens ; every corner was full, her bureau loaded, 
the table covered, and the walls adorned ; in fact, 
it had almost become a proverb in the family that 
" Whatever Bessie wished for always came." 

Now she was ten years old, had declared her- 
self tired of Christmas trees, and announced that 
to hang up a stocking for Santa Claus to fill was 
too childish — she should like to keep Christmas 
some new way. This was what Aunt Ruth was 
puzzling over. At last, with a look of relief, she 
exclaimed : "I have an idea ! I know it will please 

She immediately went to her writing-desk, 
wrote a long letter to Bessie's mamma, and folded 
into it a crisp bank-note. 

On Christmas morning Bessie opened her eyes 
upon a bright silver quarter which lay on her 
pillow. Beside it was a tiny note. She opened it 
and read : ' 

"Dear Bessie: I am one of fifteen silver fairies which are to 
appear to-day, with a Christmas greeting from your Aunt Ruth. 
Take us all together down to some big store to-morrow, and 
we will turn into whatever small thing you may wish for." 

" Oh, how nice ! " said Bessie. " What a funny 
auntie! always doing something different from 
other people. I don't quite understand what it all 
means, but I am glad enough of this bit of spend- 
ing-money, for I had n't one cent left." 

And, wide awake, she jumped out of bed and 
began pulling on her stockings, when, to her sur- 
prise and delight, she found a shining piece of silver 
in the foot of each. Two of Aunt Ruth's fairies had 
taken possession of her shoes, another faced her 
in the wash-bowl, and a wee one was in the box 
beside her brush and comb. 

" These will almost fill my poor, little empty 
purse," she thought, as she took it from a drawer 
and touched the spring — but there, right between 
the red linings, was the biggest fairy that had yet 
appeared ! 

Such a merry time as she had dressing that 
morning ! Mamma was called in continually. 
And how they laughed over every new discovery ! 

At breakfast, she was served first to a small 
piece of silver coin ; another, just the same size, 
shone in the bottom of the glass of water Bridget 
brought her. It was really enchanting — quite 
like the story of Midas she had just been reading, 
only whatever he touched turned into gold. She 
wondered if the chicken, potatoes, and rolls would 
turn into silver when she tasted them ; but, no ! 
Although she looked very suspiciously at every- 
thing on the table, not another fairy showed 

How many times that morning she counted her 
ten silver fairies, I can not tell. But what fun she 
had hunting after the other five, upstairs and down- 
stairs, from attic to cellar, under rugs, in work- 
baskets, and in every conceivable place ! Search- 
ing was all in vain, however; fairy number eleven 
did not appear until dinner-time, when it flew out, 
most unexpectedly, as Bessie was unrolling her 
napkin, and its silver mate lay temptingly among 
the nuts when dessert was brought in. 

Bessie spent a happy afternoon sitting in the 
midst of her many presents, and planning how to 
spend her little fortune. Some of her fairy pieces 
should turn into a pair of warm mittens for poor 
Johnnie Davis ; many times it had made her heart 
ache as she had watched him trying to shovel 
snow with such red hands. She would carry a 
basket full of fairy cakes, frosted with pink and 
white sugar, to old colored Susan (she had over- 
heard her telling the cook that it was many a long 
day since she had tasted anything nice) ; she 
would change her biggest fairy into a pretty doll 
for that distressed-looking crippled girl who lived 
around in the alley, and would carry out many 
other plans of the same sort. 

But Mamma was calling her to get ready for a 
walk, and, rather reluctantly, she turned away 
from her new treasures to put on her wrappings, 
and felt in the pocket of her cloak for her gloves. 
They were missing, but there she found a fairy, 
and another came sticking out from the bow on 
her hat, in a most comical fashion. 

That night, at supper, a little cake was placed 
before Bessie's plate, and fairy fourteen came near 
being eaten, but peeped into sight just in time to 
be saved from such a fate. How pleasantly and 
quickly the evening passed ! All the new things 



had to be looked at and admired over again. There 
was one more hunt after the fairy that had not 
made its appearance ; it was unsuccessful, how- 
ever, and bed-time, that dread of children, came 
at last. It was strange (for Bessie had ransacked 
her room five minutes before), but there, quietly 
resting on the snowy pillow, lay the last of Aunt 
Ruth's fairies ! 

While she was undressing, Mamma explained 
all the mysteries of the day by reading her Aunt 
Ruth's letter, in which full directions had been 
given. Then she told how Papa had changed the 
paper money into the newest and brightest coins 
he could find ; how busy she had been hiding 
them, as Auntie had suggested, and how success- 
fully she had escaped being caught. 

"Well, Mamma, it 's the merriest Christmas 
Day I ever knew ! I like all my presents very 
much, but I think I have enjoyed my fairies the 
most. I know what I shall do to-morrow. I have 

got it all planned. Some other people shall see 
fairies too." 

And thanking her Heavenly Father for all his 
good gifts, Bessie tucked the crowded purse under 
her pillow, lay down, and was soon fast asleep. 

Early next morning, with Mamma to help and 
advise, Bessie started out on her pleasant errands 
of love ; and the silver fairies disappeared rapidly 
into all kinds of the oddest-shaped parcels, until 
Bessie's big basket was full, and her arms too. 
Such fun she had distributing her fairy bundles, 
and such looks and words of gratitude as she re- 
ceived in return ! "Why, it 's nicer than my 
Christmas, Mamma," she whispered, as she turned 
to leave the poor little cripple, whom she had 
made so happy by giving her the first doll she 
had ever owned. 

So, many sad hearts were made glad that day, 
and the whole long year, by Aunt Ruth's Christ- 
mas fairies. 



& family * 




Old J3ok, youncf J3ob* 
Little J3©k and hlg 
Moll^ob and FUlgJJot 
And M%3ehi>gx p#. 

>. /\U Went for a. drive ene day 
/\tsd strange as it w^g seem 


* IJl&e* M$M^ *tW drove s.x mites and Wk <#"«>\ 

&t¥^3wi I^^^X And "AW*- /Urt i^e team * 

8 4 



By Frank R. Stockton. 


Chapter IV. f 

Louis did not submit readily to his captors. At 
first he was angry; then he cried, and when some 
of the men laughed at him for being a baby he 
got angry again, and told them they were a band 
of cowards to set upon him in this way, — a dozen 
men on one boy, — and that if they wanted to rob 
him they might do it and go about their business. 
He did not care ; he could walk home. 

" No, no, my valiant page," said the leader of 
the robbers; " we don't want you to walk and we 
don't want you to go home. We shall take you 
with us now, and we will see about the robbing 

And with this he turned the little horse around, 

* Copyright, 18S2, by F. R. Stockton. 

and led him, by a path which Louis had passed 
without noticing it, into the depths of the forest. 
On the way, the robber asked his young prisoner 
a great many questions regarding his family, his 
connections, and his present business in riding 
thus alone through the forest roads. To these 
questions Louis was ready enough to give answer, 
for it was not his nature to conceal anything, unless 
he thought it absolutely necessary. Indeed, he 
was quite proud of the opportunity thus afforded 
him of talking about the rank and importance of 
his mother, and of dwelling upon the great power 
and warlike renown of the nobleman under whom 
he served. 

" They will not let me stay here long, you may 
be sure of that," said Louis. "As soon as they 

f This story was begun in the November number. 



hear that you have carried me off, they will take 
me away from you." 

"I hope so, indeed," said the robber, laughing; 
"and if I had not thought that they would take 
you from me, I should not have taken the trouble 
to capture you." 

"Oh, I know what you mean," said the boy. 
"You expect them to ransom me." 

" I most certainly do," replied the other. 

" But they will not do it," cried Louis. "They 
will come with soldiers and take me from you ! " 

"We shall see," returned the robber. 

It was almost dark when, by many winding and 
sometimes almost invisible paths through the 
forest, the party reached a collection of rude huts, 
which were evidently the present dwelling-places 
of these robbers, or cotereaux, as they were called. 
There were several classes of highwaymen, or 
brigands, in France at this time, and of these the 
cotereaux were, probably, the most numerous. 

There were fires built in various places about 
the open space in which the huts had been erected, 
and there were a good many men around the fires. 
A smell of cooking meat made Louis feel sure that 
supper would soon be ready, and this was a com- 
forting thing to him, for he was very hungry. 
The supper which was served to him was of plain 
food, but he had enough, and the bed he slept on, 
at the back part of the Captain's hut, was nothing 
but a lot of dry leaves and twigs, with a coarse 
cloth thrown over it ; but Louis was very tired, and 
it was not long before he was sound asleep. 

He was much troubled, of course, at the thought 
of going to bed in this way, in the midst of a band 
of robbers, but he was not afraid that they would 
do him any injury, for he had heard enough about 
these cotereaux to know that they took prisoners 
almost always for the purpose of making money 
out of them, and not to da them useless harm. If 
he had been an older and a deeper thinker, he 
would, probably, have thought of the harm which 
might be done to him in case no money could be 
made by his capture ; but this matter did not 
enter his mind. He went to sleep with the feel- 
ing that what he wanted now was a good night's 
rest, and that, in some way or other, all would be 
right on the morrow. 

Michol, the captain of the band, was very plain- 
spoken, the next morning, in telling Louis his 
plans in regard to him. " I know well," he said, 
" that your mother is able to pay a handsome ran- 
som for you, and, if she is so hard-hearted that she 
will not do it, I can depend on Barran. He will 
not let a page from his castle pine away in these 
woods, for the sake of a handful of gold." 

" My mother is not hard-hearted," said Louis, 
" and I am not going to pine away, no matter how 

long you keep me. Uo you intend to send to my 
mother to-day ? " 

" Not so soon as that," replied Michol. " I 
shall let her have time to feel what a grievous thing 
it is to have a son carried away to the heart of 
the forest, where she can never find him, and 
where he must stay, month after month and year 
after year, until she pays his worthy captors what 
she thinks the boy is worth." 

"I '11 tell you what I '11 do," said Louis. "If 
you will give me my horse and my falcon, which 
your men have taken from me, and will let me 
have again my dagger, I will go to Viteau, myself, 
and tell my mother about the ransom ; and I prom- 
ise you that she will send you all the money she can 
afford to spend for me in that way. And. if there 
is no one else to bring it, — for our men might be 
afraid to venture among so many robbers, — I shall 
bring it myself, on my way back to Barran's castle. 
I am not afraid to come." 

" I am much pleased to hear that, my boy," 
said Michol, " but I do not like your plan. When 
I am ready, I shall send a messenger, and no one 
will be afraid to bring me the money, when every- 
thing is settled. But one thing you can do. If 
you have ever learned to write, — and I have heard 
that the Countess of Viteau has taught her sons 
to be scholars, — you may write- a letter to your 
mother, and tell her in what a doleful plight you 
find yourself, and how necessary it is that she 
should send all the money that I ask for. Thus 
she will see that you are really my prisoner, and 
will not delay to come to your assistance. One of 
my men, Jasto, will give you a pen and ink, and 
something to write your letter on. You may go, 
now, and look for Jasto. You will know him by 
his torn clothes and his thirst for knowledge." 

" Torn clothes ! " said Louis, as he walked away. 
" They all have clothes of that kind. And, as for 
his thirst for knowledge, I can not see how I am to 
find out that. I suppose the Captain wanted to 
give me something to do, so as to keep me from 
troubling him. I am not going to look for any 
Jasto. If I could find my horse, and could get a 
chance, I should jump on him and gallop away from 
these fellows." 

Louis wandered about among the huts, peering 
here and there for a sight of Agnes's little jennet. 
But he saw nothing of him, for the animal had 
been taken away to another part of the forest, to 
keep company with other stolen horses. And even 
if he had been able to mount and ride away unob- 
served, it would have been impossible for Louis to 
find his way along the devious paths of the forest 
to the highway. More than this, although he 
seemed to be wandering about in perfect liberty, 
some of the men had orders to keep their eyes 




upon the boy, and to stop him if he endeavored 
to penetrate into the forest. 

" Ho, there ! " said a man, whom Louis suddenly 
met, as he was walking between two of the huts, 
"are you looking for anything ? What have you 
lost ? " 

" I have lost nothing," said Louis, deeming it 
necessary to reply only to the last question. 

" I thought you lost your liberty yesterday," said 
the other, ''and, before that, you must have lost 
your senses, to be riding alone on a road, walled 
in for miles and miles by trees, bushes, and brave 
cotcrcaux. But, of course, I did not suppose that 
you came here to look for either your liberty or 
your senses. What is it you want? " 

Louis had no intention of telling the man that 
he was looking for his horse, and so, as he felt 
obliged to give some answer, he said : 

"I was sent to look for Jasto, so that 1 could 
write a letter to my mother." 

"Jasto!" exclaimed the man. "Well, my 
young page, if you find everything in the world 
as easily as you found Jasto, you will do well. I 
am Jasto. And do you know how you came to 
find me ? " 

" I chanced to meet you," said Louis. 

" Not so," said the other. " If I had not been 
looking for you, you never would have found me. 
Things often happen in that manner. If what we 
are looking for does not look for us, we never find 
it. But what is this about your mother and a let- 
ter? Sit down here, in this bit of shade, and make 
these things plain to me." 

Louis accepted this invitation, for the sun was 
beginning to be warm, and he sat down by the 
man, at the foot of a tree. 

" I do not believe you are Jasto," he said, look- 
ing at his companion. " Your clothes are not 
torn. I was told to look for a man with torn 

" Torn clothes ! " exclaimed the other. " What 
are you talking of? Not torn ? Why, boy. my 
clothes are more torn and are worse torn and 
have staid torn longer than the clothes of any 
man in all our goodly company. But they have 
been mended, you see, and that is what makes 
them observable among so many sadly tattered 

Louis looked at the coarse jerkin, breeches, and 
stockings of the man beside him. They were, 
certainly, torn and ripped in many places, and the 
torn places were of many curious shapes, as if the 
wearer had been making a hurried journey through 
miles of bramble bushes : but all the torn places 
were carefully mended with bright-red silk thread, 
which made them more conspicuous than if they 
had not been mended at all. 

" I see that they have been torn," said Louis, 
"but they are not torn now." 

"A great mistake, my good sir page — a great 
mistake," said the other ; " once torn, always torn. 
If my clothes are mended, that but gives them 
another quality. Then they have two qualities. 
They are torn and they are mended. If one's 
clothes are torn, the only way to have clothes that 
are not torn is to have new ones. Think of that, 
boy, and make no rents in yourself nor in your 
clothes. Although mending can be done very 
well," he added, looking complacently at his 
breeches, " the evil of it is, though, that it always 

" I could mend better than that," said Louis. 

" That is to be hoped ; it is truly to be hoped," 
said the other, " for you have had better chances 
than I. This red silk, left in our hands by a fair 
lady, who was taking it to waste it in embroidery 
in some friend's castle, was all the thread I had for 
my mending. Now, you could have all things 
suitable for your mending, whether of clothes or 
of mind or of body, if it should so happen that 
you should have rents in any of these. But tell 
me, now, about your letter." 

" There is nothing to tell," said Louis, " except- 
ing that your Captain wishes me to write a letter 
to my mother, urging her to send good ransom for 
me, and that he said you could give me pen and 
ink and something to write upon." 

"Pen and ink are well enough," said the man, 
who, as Louis now believed, was really Jasto, "for 
I can make them. But something to write on is a 
more difficult matter to find. Paper is too scarce, 
and parchment costs too much ; and so there is 
none of either in this company. But I shall see to 
it that you have something to write on when you 
are ready to write. It strikes me that the chief 
trouble will be to put together the three things — 
the pen and the ink and the something to write 
on — in such a manner as to make a letter of them. 
Did you ever write a letter ?" 

" Not yet. But I know how to do it," said Louis; 
and, as he spoke, he remembered how he had 
promised his brother to write a letter to him. He 
was now going to send a letter to Viteau, but 
under what strange circumstances it would be 
written! If he were at the castle, Agnes would 
help him. He wished he had thought of asking 
her, weeks ago, to help him. 

" I have written a letter myself," said Jasto, 
"but before I had written it I trembled to say I 
could do it. And I was a grown man, and had 
fought in three battles. But pages are bolder 
than soldiers. Would you like to hear about my 

" Indeed I should," said Louis, anxious to lis- 




ten to anything which might give him a helping 
hint regarding the duty he had taken upon himself. 

" Well, then," said Jasto, stretching out his 
legs, "I shall tell you about my letter. It was 
just before " 

"Jasto!" rang out a voice from the opposite 
side of the inclosure formed by the huts. 

"There!" cried Jasto, jumping to his feet, 
"that is the Captain. I must go. But you sit still, 
just where you are, and when I come back, which 
will be shortlv, I shall tell you about my letter." 

a good appearance at the house of his cousin, with 
whom he was to live, Bernard insisted on his em- 
ploying nearly all his leisure time in out-door 
exercises and knightly accomplishments. Hawk- 
ing was postponed for the present, for, after the 
loss of Raymond's falcon was discovered, Bernard 
declared that he had not the heart to train another 
one immediately, even if a good bird could be 
easily obtained, which was not the case. 

Very little was said about the disappearance of 
the falcon. Raymond, his mother, and the squire 


Chapter V. 

We must now go back to the Chateau de Viteau, 
and see what has happened there since the depart- 
ure of Louis for his new home. Of course, the 
boy was greatly missed by his mother and brother, 
but Raymond soon found himself so busy that he 
had not time enough to grieve very much over the 
absence of his old playmate. In order to prepare 
himself for the school at Paris he was obliged to 
study diligently, and in order that he might make 

each had a suspicion that Louis had had something 
to do with it ; but no one of them mentioned it to 
either of the others. Each hoped the suspicion 
was unfounded, and therefore said nothing about it. 

While Raymond was busy with his studies and 
his manly exercises, the mind of Bernard, even 
while giving the boy the benefit of his knowledge 
of the management of horses and the use of arms, 
was occupied with a very serious matter. 

As has been said before, the Countess of Viteau 
was one of the very few ladies in France who was 




fairly educated, and who took an interest in acquir- 
ing knowledge from books. This disposition, so 
unusual at that time, together with her well-known 
efforts to have her sons educated, even giving a 
helping hand herself whenever she found that she 
was qualified to do so, had attracted attention to 
her, and many people began to talk about her, as 
a woman who gave a great deal of time to useless 
pursuits. Why should a lady of her rank — these 
people said — wish to read books and study out the 
meaning of old manuscripts, as if she were of no 
higher station than a poor monk ? If there were 
anything in the books and parchments which 
she ought to know, the priests would tell her all 
about it. 

But the Countess thought differently, and she 
kept on with her reading, which was almost en- 
tirely confined to religious works, and in this way 
she gradually formed some ideas about religious 
matters which were somewhat different from those 
taught at that time by the Church of Rome, or, at 
least, from those taught by the priests about her. 
She saw no harm in her opinions, and did not hes- 
itate to speak of them to the priests who came to 
the chateau from a neighboring monaster)', and 
even to argue in favor of them. 

The priests, however, did see harm in the ideas 
of the Countess, simply because, in those days, 
people had very narrow and bigoted ways of think- 
ing in regard to religious affairs, and it was gen- 
erally thought that any person having an opinion 
differing, even very little, from what was taught by 
the monks and priests, was doing a wicked thing 
to persist in such an opinion after he had been 
told it was wrong. 

For this reason, when the priests who had charge 
of the religious services at Viteau found that their 
arguments made no impression on the Countess, 
who was able to answer them back in such a way 
that they could find nothing more to say on their 
side of the question, they reported the state of 
affairs to some of the higher officers of the Church, 
and, in due time, a man was sent to Viteau to find 
out exactly what its mistress did think, and why 
she was so wicked as to think it. 

The person who was sent was the Dominican 
monk, Brother Anselmo, who was met by the two 
boys and Bernard, on the occasion when we first 
made their acquaintance. Brother Anselmo was 
a quiet-spoken man, making no pretensions to au- 
thority or to superior knowledge ; and the Count- 
ess talked with him and answered his questions 
freely and unsuspectingly. She knew he was a 
Dominican, and she knew he had come to the 
neighborhood of Viteau on purpose to talk with 
her on certain religious subjects ; but this did not 
surprise her, as she supposed all good people were 

just as much interested in these subjects as she 
was ; but she had no idea that he was connected 
with the Inquisition at Toulouse. 

Bernard, the squire, however, knew well who 
he was, and it troubled him greatly to know it. 

Some weeks after the Dominican had begun to 
make his almost daily visits to Viteau, he came, 
one day, accompanied by another monk, who did 
not enter the grounds, but who remained outside 
the little gate, waiting for his companion to return. 

Bernard noticed the monk waiting outside, and 
thinking that this unusual occurrence had some- 
thing suspicious about it, he followed Brother 
Anselmo when he left the chateau, and, as he 
rejoined his fellow monk, the squire slipped 
quietly up to the wall and listened to what they 
said to each other. In this case, Bernard did not 
consider that he was doing a very improper thing. 
He feared that danger threatened the household 
of Viteau, and that these two monks were the 
persons through whom the evil would come. 
Therefore, he believed that it was his duty to em- 
ploy every possible means of averting this danger; 
and he listened with all his ears. 

What he heard was very little. The two monks 
stood silent a few moments, and then the one who 
had been waiting said something in a low voice, 
which Bernard could not hear. To this Brother 
Anselmo answered: "We have done all we can. 
I think it is a case for the Holy Inquisition." 

And then the two walked off together. 

Bernard now knew that his fears were correct. 
His beloved mistress, on account of some of her 
religious opinions, was in danger of being carried 
a prisoner to Toulouse, there to be tried before 
the officers of the Inquisition. He had no doubt 
that her opinions, whatever they were, were en- 
tirely correct, for he had a great respect for her 
religious knowledge, and he felt sure she knew 
more than the monks who came to the chateau, 
but he well understood that, if she should be put 
on trial, and if the doctrines she believed to be true 
were found to differ, in the least point, from those 
taught by the priests, she would be considered 
guilty of heresy, and perhaps be put to death. 

The squire went away from the wall a very sad 
man. He was certain that no one at the chateau 
but himself knew of the danger of its mistress, and 
he felt that it rested on him to take some im- 
mediate steps to save her, if that were possible. 

As he approached the house, Bernard met Ray- 
mond, who was coming to take some lessons from 
him in the use of the long sword. The good squire 
never threw so much energy and good-will into his 
lessons as he did that day. 

"If he has to fight for his mother," he said to 
himself, " I want him to fight well." 

( To be continued. ) 


8 9 

By C. F. Holder. 


At the close of the last century, a poor fisherman 
named Shumarhoff lived near the mouth of the 
Lena River, which flows through the cold Siberian 
country and is lost in the icy waters of the Arctic 
Sea. In the summer, he plied his vocation on the 
sea-coast, and during the long winter lived far up 
the river, where it was, perhaps, a little warmer. 
It is safe to say that Shumarhoff would never have 
made a great noise in the world — in fact, would 

never have been heard of — had it not been for a 
wonderful discovery he made while coming down 
the river one spring. The river-banks of this cold 
country are quite peculiar. Those on the western 
side are generally low and marshy, while those on 
the eastern are often from sixty to one hundred 
feet in height. In the extreme north, this high 
elevation is cut into numerous pyramidal-shaped 
mounds, which, viewed from the sea or river, look 




exactly as if they had been built by man. In the 
summer, these strange formations are free from 
snow, and to a depth of ten feet are soft ; but 
below this they are continually frozen, and have 
been for untold ages. They are formed of layers 
of earth and ice — sometimes a clear stratum of 
the latter many feet in thickness. 

It was before such a mound that our fisherman 
stopped, dumb with astonishment, one spring 
morning, so many years ago. About thirty feet 
above him, half-way up the face of the mound, 
appeared the section of a great ice-layer, from 
which the water was flowing in numberless 
streams ; while protruding from it, and partly 
hanging over, was an animal of such huge pro- 
portions that the simple fisherman could hardly 
believe his eyes. Two gigantic horns or tusks 
were visible, and a great woolly body was faintly 
outlined in the blue, icy mass. In the fall, he 
related the story to his comrades up the river, 
and in the ensuing spring, with a party of his 
fellow fishermen, he again visited the spot. A 
year had worked wonders. The great mass had 
thawed out sufficiently to show its nature, and on 
closer inspection proved to be a well-preserved 
specimen of one of those gigantic extinct hairy 
elephants that roamed over the northern parts of 
Europe and America in the earlier ages of the 
world. The body was still too firmly attached and 
frozen to permit of removal. For four successive 
years the fishermen visited it, until finally, in 
March,. 1804, five years after its original discovery, 
it broke away from its icy bed and came thunder- 
ing down upon the sands below. The discoverers 
first detached the tusks, that were nine feet six 
inches in length, and together weighed three hun- 
dred and sixty pounds. The hide, covered with 
wool and hair, was more than twenty men could 
lift. Part of this, with the tusks, were taken to 
Jakutsk and sold for fifty rubles, while the rest of 
the animal was left where it fell, and cut up at vari- 
ous times by the Jakoutes, who fed their dogs with 
its flesh. A strange feast this, truly — meat that 
had been frozen solid in the ice-house of Nature 
perhaps fifty thousand years, 9 more or less ; but so 
well was it preserved that, when the brain was 
afterward compared with that of a recently killed 
animal, no difference in the tissues could be 

Two years after the animal had fallen from the 
cliff, the news reached St. Petersburg, and the 
Museum of Natural History sent a scientist to 
secure the specimen and purchase it for the Em- 
peror. He found the mammoth where it originally 
fell, but much torn by animals, especially by the 
white bears and foxes. The massive skeleton, 
however, was entire, with the exception of one 

k According t<j Sir William Logan, from five 

fore leg, while all the other bones were still held 
together by the ligaments and flesh, as if the 
animal had been dead only a few weeks. The 
neck was still covered by a long mane of reddish 
wool, and over thirty pounds more of the same 
colored wool or hair were collected by the scientist 
from the adjacent sand, into which it had been 
trodden by bears and other animals of prey. In 
this condition the mammoth, with the tusks, which 
were repurchased in Jakutsk, was taken to St. 
Petersburg and there mounted. 

Our illustration depicts this very specimen, 
representing it as it appeared when alive and 
moving along with ponderous tread through the 
scanty woodland of the northern countries. Its 
length is twenty-six feet, including the curve of the 
tusks ; it stands sixteen feet high, and when alive 
it probably weighed more than twice as much as the 
largest living elephant. And, as some tusks have 
been found over fifteen feet in length, we may 
reasonably conclude that Shumarhoff's mammoth 
is only an average specimen, and that many of its 
companions were considerably larger. 

Imagine the spectacle of a large herd of these 
mighty creatures rushing along over the frozen 
ground, the reverberation of their tread sounding 
like thunder. When enraged, their wild, headlong 
course must have been one of terrible devastation. 
Large trees were but twigs to these giants of the 
north, and everything must have given way before 

Tusks of this animal had been discovered pre- 
vious to Shumarhoffs find, and have been found 
since in such great quantities that vessels go out 
for the sole purpose of collecting them. Esch- 
scholtz Bay, near Behring Strait, is a famous 
place for them, and numbers have also been found 
in England. It is stated that the fishermen of 
Happisburgh have dredged up over two thousand 
mammoth teeth during the past twelve years — a 
fact showing that a once favorite resort, or perhaps 
burying-ground, of these great creatures, is now 
covered by the ocean. In the cliffs of Northern 
Alaska remains of the mammoth are often seen, 
and the New Siberian Islands recently visited by 
the Arctic explorer, Baron Nordenskjold, arc lib- 
erally supplied with these, as well as remains of 
other and equally interesting extinct and fossil 
animals. The mammoth was so called from a 
curious belief among the Siberians that this enor- 
mous animal lived in caverns under the ground, 
much after the fashion of the mole. Many of the 
tusks and bones were found buried in the frozen 
earth, and it was the natural conclusion that the 
animal lived there when alive. They believed it 
could not bear the light of day ; and so dug out 
with its tusks great tunnels in the earth. 

hundred thousand to one million years ago. 



To us the mammoth is known as the Elephas 
primigenus, an extinct and northern cousin of 
the Indian elephant of to-day. It lived above the 
parallel of forty degrees in Europe, Northern Asia, 
and North-western North America, during what 
is known in geology as the Quaternary age. In 
those days, North America presented an entirely 
different appearance from the present. What are 
now the coast States, from Maine to Central 
America, were then nearly, if not entirely, under 
water, while Florida existed, if at all, merely as a 
deep coral-reef. A great arm of the sea or ocean 
extended up the St. Lawrence nearly to Lake On- 
tario, covering Lake Champlain and many other 
Canadian lakes. The site of the present city of 
Montreal was then five hundred feet under water, 
and whales swam at will over what is now Lake 
Champlain — a fact sufficiently proved by the dis- 
covery of one sixty feet above the borders of the 
present lake, and one hundred and fi*ty feet above 
the level of the Atlantic Ocean. 

The animals that lived with the mammoth in 
that far-off, wonderful age were equally interesting. 
In 1772, a hairy rhinoceros was found in the ice 
at Wilni, Siberia, preserved in the same manner as 
the Shumarhoff mammoth. England, the northern 
part of Europe and Asia, and probably North 

America also, were the roaming-grounds of a huge 
two-horned rhinoceros, that probably waged war 
with the mammoth. The streams, rivers, and 
swamps were then populated with gigantic hippo- 
potamuses, armed with terrible tusks, while on the 
higher plains were oxen and deer, compared to 
which our modern cattle are dwarfs and pigmies. 
Among the tiger tribe was one now called the Mar- 
chacrodus, with sharp, saber-like teeth eight or nine 
inches long — one of the most formidable creatures 
of this age of wonders. It waged deadly warfare 
against the vast herds of wild horses that roamed 
the eastern plains in those days. Besides these 
were savage hyenas of great size, that traversed the 
country in troops, leaving devastation in their 

Other great elephants are known to the geolo- 
gist : as the mastodon, specimens of which have 
been unearthed at Newburg and Cohoes, N. Y., 
in Salem County, N. J., and in many other parts 
of this country. There is also record of a great 
fossil elephant, with tusks fifteen feet long, that 
was excavated from the Sewalik Hills of India ; but 
none of these approached the hairy mammoth in 
size. It is surely a fitting monument of this ancient 
time, when man — if he existed at all — was but 
a savage, and the earth seemingly incomplete. 


jl LxttleGirt askectsome Kittens to tea, 

To xueefc some Dolls front France s 

fttid, their Jvloiher' came loo io enjoy a- view, 

iltiA afterwards piay- for the dance . 

But the Kittens were rude. % grabbe&iheir food, 

ihid/ireaiecl ike Dolls With jeers ■ 

Which, caused- their J4 other an aching heart 

i\ncl seven or eight large tears. r 

9 2 




By Nora Perry. 

hat 's this hurry, what 's this flurry, 

All throughout the house to-day ? 
verywhere a merry scurry, 

Everywhere a sound of play. 
Something, too, 's the matter, matter, 

Out-of-doors as well as in, 
For the bell goes clatter, clatter, 

Every minute — such a din ! 

Everybody winking, blinking, 

In a queer, mysterious way ; 
What on earth can they be thinking, 

What on earth can be to pay ? 
Bobby peeping o'er the stair-way, 

Bursts into a little shout ; 
Kitty, too, is in a fair way, 

Where she hides 

As the bell goes cling-a-ling-ing 

Every minute more and more, 
And swift feet go springing, springing, 

Through the hall-way to the door, 
Where a glimpse of box and packet. 

And a little rustle, rustle, 
Makes such sight and sound and racket,— 

Such a jolly bustle, bustle, — 
That the youngsters in their places, 

Hiding slyly out of sight, 
All at once show shining faces, 

All at once scream with delight. 

Go and ask them what 's the matter, 

What the fun outside and in — 
What the meaning of the clatter, 

What the bustle and the din. 
Hear them, hear them laugh and shout then, 

All together hear them say, 
' Why, what have you been about, then, 

Not to know it 's Christmas day?" 



By J. L. W. 

THE scene here represented was a familiar spec- 
tacle in the streets of English towns some centuries 
ago. They had many quaint 
observances in those days, 
as we all know, and the 
one here shown resembled 
much the pretty custom of 
singing Christmas carols 
under the windows of the 
rich, during holiday-week. 
The ' ' Soul-cake, " however, 
was rather a Halloween 
celebration than a Christ- 
mas-tide usage. The offer- 
ings of the first fruits of the 
year's harvest were called 
"Soul-cakes," which the 
rich gave to the poor at the 
Halloween season, in return 
for which the recipients 
prayed for the souls of the 
givers and their friends. 
And this custom became so 
favored in popular esteem 
that, for a long time, it was 
a regular observance in the 
country towns of England 
for small companies to go 
about from parish to parish 
at Halloween, begging soul- 
cakes by singing under the 
windows some such verse as 

" Soul, soul, for a soul-cake ; 
Pray you, good mistress, a soul- 
cake ! " 

It was not unusual, too, 
in those days, for the cele- 
bration of Christmas to be 
kept up for weeks before 
and after the actual date ; 
and in the great houses of 

the country, — the homes of dukes and earls, — a 
"lord of misrule," or "abbot of unreason," was 
appointed before the advent of Halloween, to 
devise and superintend the pastimes and merry- 
making of the Christmas festival. His authority 
lasted from All-Hallow Eve (or Halloween) to 
Candlemas Day (the 2d of February), and during 
all that time the castle or manor over which he 
reigned was given up to feasting, music, and 

mirth, which was shared by those of every rank 
and age. The last recorded appointment of a 

"lord of misrule" was in 1627, and at that time 
his title had changed into " The Grand Captainc 
of Mischieffe." No doubt he must have been the 
merriest of all the revelers at Halloween, when 
beginning his frolicsome reign ; but perhaps he 
found it harder to maintain his joy as Candlemas 
Day drew near, when he would have to lay aside 
his authority and resume his work-a-day duties and 





FEW days ago, my dear 
Kitty, I saw a little girl 
making a new face for 
herself, although she 
did n't know what 
she was doing. 
Indeed, I oft- 
en see boys 
and girls 
y\ tracing up- 
&J) on them- 
^J-fes selves lines 
that, after 
a time, be- 
come as dis- 
tinct, though 
not colored, 
as the tattoo- 
markings of 
the South Sea Islanders. 
In fact, you were the little 
girl who was changing her face ; and I have thought 
that, if I wrote you what the politicians call "an open 
letter " about it, both you and other little friends 
of St. NICHOLAS might thank me in your hearts. 
You have often heard the saying that " Beauty is 
only skin deep "; and there is another that may be 
new to you, that ''God makes our faces, but we 
make our mouths." Now, like most proverbs, these 
are truths, but they are not complete truths. But 
I think I can show you how in great measure we 
do make our own mouths and our own faces. 

You know very well that a blacksmith's arm is 
not only strong, but large, because hard work has 
developed its muscles. And it is a general truth 
that all muscles increase by exercise. But you do 
not see how a blacksmith's arm illustrates anything 
in a little girl's face ? Let us "make haste slowly," 
as the wise old Romans used to say, and then my 
meaning may be clearer. 

What does our skin, so soft and smooth in child- 
hood, and often so harsh and wrinkled in old age, 
cover ? ■ You say, flesh ? Yes. And some other 
little girl adds, fat ? Very well. And the boy who 
is studying physiology adds, nerves and tendons ? 
True. And then you all know that bones support 
the human structure — are the frame — just as the 
beams and timbers of a wooden house, or of a ship, 
are its frame. But what is flesh ? Is it merely so 
much softer fabric thrown over and fastened to the 
bones in a thick sheet, like the soft seat on the 
hard frame of your parlor sofa ? Not at all. The 

flesh is separated into several hundred divisions, or 
little bundles, called muscles. 

Muscles and flesh are different names for the 
same thing, just as the bricks and the wall of a 
house, or the stones and the pavement of a street, 
are the same. Only the muscles, unlike the bricks 
and stones, are all changeable as to size within cer- 
tain limits ; for each muscle is attached to the 
bone beneath it by the tough, inelastic tendon. 
Now, you know the bones can neither bend nor 
change their length. But how, for example, does 
your hand reach your mouth when you eat? 
Because your arm is jointed, and some large mus- 
cles are fastened by one end to its upper part, near 
the shoulder, and by the other end below the elbow. 
The muscles contract, which, as your Latin reminds 
you, means "draw together, "and thus grow shorter, 
and by means of the elbow-joint the lower part of 
the arm (for the bone can not shorten) is carried 
around and toward the shoulder or the face, as the 
case may be. But, becoming shorter, the muscles 
must become thicker, just as, when a stretched 
piece of India-rubber contracts, you see it grow 
thicker and stouter as it grows shorter. By putting 
your hand upon it, you can feel the muscle of your 
arm swell as it does its work. But you already 
know that continuous and forcible exercise causes 
the arm — that is, its muscles — to grow much more 
marked and bulky. Let us stop a moment to see 
exactly what muscle means. Your Latin dictionary 
will tell you, if you don't already know, that mns 
means mouse, and musculus a little mouse. The 
old anatomists who began to pry into Nature's 
secrets were impressed with the mouse-like outline 
of these tissues when contracted, and so called them 
little mice-muscles. So all our flesh is muscle, and 
it is these little mice running under the skin that 
are the tell-tales of what is going on or has been 

Now your dear, soft face has its many muscles, 
too, much finer and more delicate than those of 
the body, by the exercise of which you express the 
emotions you feel. It would take too long to ex- 
plain how or why certain of them respond to and 
illustrate certain feelings, and for the present you 
must accept it as a fact. Now, the secret of our 
first proverb lies in the further fact that around 
the mouth is one of the few muscles in the body 
that is not attached to bone. It is a muscular 
ring, to which other muscles are fastened, and 
moves in whatever direction it may be influenced, 
retaining the set and fashion into which it may be 



drawn. And as the bony parts of the face, the 
nose, the forehead, the cheek-bones, the jaws, the 
whole fixed contour, are what we have inherited, 
we can not of ourselves make much alteration in 
them. So, also, we inherit our mouth; but this, as 
well as a part of the surface of the countenance, 
we can, and often do, materially alter ; and it is to 
these alterations. — this making of faces, — that we 
all, old and young, should give heed. 

I will not tire you, my darling, by going into 
those details which belong to a study that is be- 
yond your years, but I want you to remember that 
those who are peevish and knit their eyebrows 
and wrinkle their foreheads — cloud their brows, it 
is called — do so only by the operation of little 
muscles, that work more easily and grow a very 
little every time they are so employed. There 
are a set of snarling muscles that draw up the cor- 

ners of the mouth and expose the canine teeth, 
which, in the savage flesh-eaters of the forest and 
jungle, are coarse and strong, and always at work, 
and which, I am sorry to say, are sometimes too 
well marked in boys and men. There is a little, but 
mischievous muscle, called superbus (which does 
not mean "superb," but "proud"), that, with a 
human helper, draws down and pouts out the proud 
and sullen lower lip. But. regardless of names. 
what I want you to particularly bear in mind is. 
that as every expression the features can assume 
becomes easier the oftener it is repeated, so the lit- 
tle mice run away with beauty and goodness of face 
when these expressions are unkind ; and, in like 
manner, they are fairy messengers, bringing pleas- 
ant gifts for both present and future use, when the 
face becomes the mask of a good and willing heart. 
Your affectionate UNCLE ALFRED. 

Br JT- v\lo Jld. do-qJ/j-e. Jell. 

Yo J -fw\loW- 

Io-v\Je/\r- ifsj- PLEr\s/\rJr- 


nLd- fJ/\D- ai\Iot*Ier- F"e*tJer. 

SKI ' ■ 





ll/ul Wv^ry'dot up one day /^^. 

TuJV^eJ?Jook , (Truck ten/fe^ 

.he'lwo>.jneq her Jtx.ce, alH $ke com Led her Jyojr*, 
[/\ ncl \^KeJcl©nnecl Ker/fock, &H tken 
©/ne ^eivt" witk kcr Jilfie wellermr?'- toot 
*%To -j/tiXer her 6'^rclcn f^y'ir. 

But tv.I'cxj ! &N cd<\ck! tfere wasn't &. 5Jk!m 
iw^- O/" ke/* fceaotitjful 6&rc/en tkere : 



Vui stkte ly) 1 i I IC5 , p wkitc tv^A 




7\«J "tfec 

/ yTke j ilver tells/-. ,. 
-V Vjife cockle- <Tie!l 5 ,|^ 

A^TKe moJden$ aJI^-row^. ^ 

sst -J© ^SS^g 



lithe larOWFfe fc!j*c{ mlkc old c\n~trce, 
' T-^cvve^oci jeen /-w /lovx'cr; to-c|cw ? "" 

Jj^o fo^ /wo, do-w&n _ TKc>6tv.rc|en w^lk, 
^P" key wcnliu 1Bc gll^t ffsrffplllrJ 

ej * 


O ^"jTREJi A\ A "Y — Qurjir conTrar 

-Q-oocj-b^e Jt b y oMf-^o.r je-r, b^ I 

P N kcrc xx/cre /^u/ylerj cvrour\c| "the silver belJj 
A' 1 ^ oveK~ff\e Irlicj v</ki~te . 

/-\ X heojvj ki/^i. when ke j&jq : 

OuiTc cpnfrevrv-, 

(jT-oocj-ivyc ~to jyoLir ijvrclcn Dec] 

Vol. X.— 7. 


9 8 



.itlle m*OWi% hi fd irv me olcj elm Tree, 
( £vn vol'I tell which w^y "they vc/ehl - ? 
iW^Qvei* "the fiver eH r4r.vv/i»-tfce. k.'ll 


\\\AiacJ up by the old reel CMei»»*-t jl| , 

Von ein fojiow them by "The 5 Grift* 
u 7^or whcr\ I woke u|o this Momih6, 
V^Ju^t" ed~th«- jttte&& of cloy, 

~]~ke trdl c/"the |iliec's"wce)7>esj"s^n 

H u g£ 

over I he cjujly ^eey- 

c mi ftp, 

Pi" RcJ^b I ioNjceq ~tfteA\ ©J -"me 
^X^cj Tnroupn 'the l&npnT hoT iroorvj 
/\"d (hio^rkr ecjpr of"\\\& evrnirsp 
T3y the li6Ki~oj^tTAcV|3t\le new /-\£or 
-f-*or-Ai\ ( r "two'^onth;; ex'1 v-aJnlv/ 
/g)/"ke looked /br kcr vx/cxndei'm^-^/ 





/ - >v - gf - — j[ i J ntvvkji jfu 

'"Pke- b'fijcq J"un one AVinutfe 

p , qfriB, -/t-o/v\ clouc^ ,ev" c| I0U5 hMp 

Vte4r2j>^tu«q/erL;^^ IJflfeL] 

#)|c|ea.rie, dearie-, dearie aac ' ^I'^&^Hl^bW?! 

V/ tv-j J_ ever cjry L^°"9 e H«fj^^^7 

rtc 1 3lA\o7C CX.5 ^O^b -<VjTthcv,\M'', : 'V 

'eviq My b ice 

// /M€ 

J hevl ct^A\e^7-o/n The heev.rT 9^ eolch , Ifly'jWMOT 
"t- V<gfc^jfe»Tc^lhp i^icJe The °^<w. ! iW_ A\^W 

e vca^,/. 

(J) c(ets.j" | ^^ %o /^oulck 

f riecj every- e©gjcte«'sfi 
A' lc] -OK? IV- S o rusty !^ ; 








ive A\Or-M 

ffRj itxfiTc notgj Ankara 

^/"*l\c c[ncc| Kcrlilici well, 

& A kJ _*i ' _J -r, -+- ^ 

'he jcotired ecxcK jiiver bell; U- -- . ^- . ^-»- ^ X V ^ ,0 



/^V""^ Two on "The Jfjv— il\ore ike jcrix|oecJ 1lit^/«oulq 

0/7^ of ecxcK cocfrle-AheH. (Tv" _ ^— H 

_/{/ / |i r " I I I ' ' -rf**^. ' ferns) 

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By Edmund A. Struthers. 




The boys and girls of St. Xicholas will per- 
haps be a little surprised to hear that there are 
civilized and enlightened people in the far north of 
our American continent who, during the winter 
season, make constant use of the dog as a beast 
of burden. 

The officers of the powerful Hudson's Bay Com- 
pany, whose trading-posts are scattered through 
the Dominion of Canada, from the Atlantic to the 
Pacific, and away north to the banks of the noble 
Yukon, find it necessary to utilize the dog for 
purposes of traveling and transportation through 
sections of country where proper food can not be 
found for horses and cattle. 

The dog is capable, also, of enduring a very low 
temperature and of thriving under harsh treat- 
ment. It is the habit of these hardy creatures, 
during a respite from drawing their heavily loaded 
sledges, to lie huddled together in their harness 
and allow the falling and drifting snow to hide 
them from sight, save where their black noses pro- 
trude for the purpose of obtaining air. With the 
Canadian Indian the dog takes the place of the 
horse, drawing the wood in winter, and bringing 
to the wigwam the spoils of the hunt. And, where 
farming has been attempted in a rude way by the 
red man, he uses his train of dogs for plowing the 
land for his little patch of potatoes. 

As you boys have your toy steam-boats and cars, 
and while playing with them think that, when you 
are men, you will own real cars and boats, so the 
little Indian boy has his toy flat-sled, and no doubt 
thinks with longing of the days when he, a full- 
grown brave, will come striding back from the 
moose-hunt on his snow-shoes, followed by the 
panting train, drawing the carcass of the antlered 
king of the forest. 

The manner of harnessing and driving dogs is 
interesting. The harness is usually made of 
moose-skin or buffalo leather, and is often lavishly 
decorated. The collar, which is not unlike our 
common horse-collar, is perfectly round, and is 
slipped over the dog's head, fitting snugly at the 
shoulders ; the traces are attached to this collar, 
and, passing through loops in the bead-worked sad- 
dle-cloth, are fastened to the sledge. Four dogs 
usually comprise a train, and are driven " tan- 
dem." Great care is taken in selecting and train- 
ing a leader; he must be quick, intelligent, strong, 
and ready to answer and obey the "chaw" and 
"yea." ("right" and "left") of his driver. 

The sledges for winter travel are of three kinds: 
the plain, flat sled (which is for freight), and the 
carriole and Berlin, for passengers. The flat sled is 
constructed of two or three long, thin boards, turned 
up at the front exactly as were the old-fashioned 
skates of our fathers, and bound together with raw- 
hide thongs. The carriole, which might be termed 
the palace-car of the dog-train, is framed over and 
covered with dressed skins. The Berlin is a pleas- 
ure-sleigh, with rawhide sides. 

Having given you an outline of the make-up 
and appearance of a dog-train, let me now ask 
that one of the boys (a brave boy he must be) 
accompany me on a journey of a few hundred 
miles through the wilderness, our only conveyance 
being flat sleighs and carrioles drawn by bushy- 
tailed and sharp-eared dogs. We will imagine 
ourselves, in the dead of winter, at Norway House, 
an important post or fort of the Hudson's Bay 
Trading Company, which is situated north of the 
head of that inland sea, Lake Winnipeg, and 
nearly four hundred miles from civilization; also 
that we are (as we most likely should be, in such 
a situation) very homesick, and wishing ourselves 
again by the shores of the grand old Atlantic. You 
say, my dear boy, you do not care to be dragged 
four hundred miles by dogs over a frozen lake, 
with no shelter at night, and the companionship 



only of the bears and wolves near the coast. But, 
never fear — it is our only way of exit from this land 
of ice and snow. So come with me to the dog-yard, 
while Mouiseau, our French half-breed guide, se- 
lects the animals which are to form our trains. We 
find a large inclosure with high, wooden walls, 
which are, at the base and for some distance up- 
ward, plated with sheet-iron to prevent the restless 
animals from gnawing their way out of prison. 
This yard, or prison-house, is filled with a great 
variety of dogs, from the stately fellow who plainly 
shows the blood of the Scotch greyhound, to the 
miserable little Indian dog, who has been allowed 
lodgings inside the stockade, while his red master 
is bartering furs inside the fort. 

Mouiseau at last selects his dogs — not the largest 
in the yard, but from the medium-sized animals, 
on account of their greater powers of endur- 
ance. We are to have twelve dogs, making 
three trains of four dogs each. The selection is 
again carefully examined, collars are fitted, and the 

to the food-supply, and places on the baggage- 
sledge a bag of pemmican (pounded buffalo-meat), 
a bag of "bannocks " (wheat-cakes made by Hector, 
the Scotch cook, who hails from the island of 
Lewis), several large pieces of fat pork, and a little 
box containing compressed potatoes. 

Mouiseau calls us to look at our sleighs, packed 
as only an old traveler can pack, with snow- 
shoes, rifles, and cooking utensils lashed on the 
outside. All is now ready, and at break of day 
we shall be off amid the cheers and shouts of the 
employes, to whom the arrival and departure of 
guests is a matter of no small moment. Were it 
an arrival, the ensign of the corporation, with its 
"elk rampant" and curious motto "Pro pelle 
cutem" (" skin for skin "), would be at the top of 
the tall staff outside the walls of the fort. 

Morning comes, and after numerous hand-shak- 
ings we sit in our carrioles, and are carefully 
wrapped by our attentive drivers, while the dogs 
are whining and barking in impatience to be off. 
The word is given : " Marsh anne mush ! " (" Go 
along, dog ! ") the whips crack, and we glide down 
the slippery path, out of the gates of the fort and 
out upon the frozen river, which has for 
banks rough walls of granite, the 

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dogs are placed in another yard near by, ready for 
to-morrow, the day of our departure. We must 
look now to our personal outfit, bearing in mind 
that our baggage must be light ; two pairs of 
wool blankets each, two buffalo robes, an oil- 
skin blanket, and two pillows complete our outfit. 
Mouiseau, with his two Indian drivers, attends 

tops of which are dotted with clumps of small jack- 
pine and spruce. We fly swiftly along, passing 
a few houses with mud chimneys and parchment 




windows, and suddenly at a bend in the river 
enter the woods. Our guide tells us this is a fa- 
vorite portage,* which saves us several miles of 
travel. We at last come out on a beautiful lake, 
dotted with islands of evergreen, and looking an 
enchanted place in the clear winter air. This is 
Playgreen Lake, a grand widening of the outlet 
of Lake Winnipeg. After an hour's travel we 
make another portage, which, we are told, is for 
the purpose of avoiding the open water at the im- 
mediate outlet of the lake. We are now twenty- 
five miles from Norway House, and have been four 
hours on the road. Truly, our little dogs do bravely. 
We stop for a few minutes, while one of our Indians 
builds a fire and prepares a cup of tea ; and then, 
our lunch over, the drivers take their places at the 
back of the sleighs, steadying and steering them 
through the narrow "wood track by the use of a 
rope called a sail-line. We suddenly speed down 
a steep bank, and there before us is Lake Winni- 
peg, that immense receiving basin, which takes 
to itself on the south the mighty, rushing Win- 
nipeg and the steady-flowing and silent stream 
which comes dashing through the rich prairie- 
lands of Dakota, Minnesota, and Manitoba, in 
its search for the sea, and known to us as the 
Red River of the North ; while in the north- 
west the melting snows of the Rocky Mountains, 
after a swift journey through the valley of the 
Saskatchewan, find a few hours' rest and then go 
tumbling down the Nelson to Hudson's Bay. On 

the right is the site of an old fort, where many 
years ago a bloody battle was fought f between 
two powerful trading companies. Before us is 
Montreal Point, for which place we now take a 
direct course, our guide running before, in a steady, 
swinging trot peculiar to Indian runners, while 
our dogs follow in good form. At intervals we 
drop into a light slumber, to be suddenly awak- 
ened by the loud crack of a loaded whip and the 
responsive cry of a lazy dog. As the sun is setting 
in the west, going down into the apparently bound- 
less lake, we halt on the edge of a huge drift, 
near the shore, which is at this point dotted with 
thickets of spruce and balsam, and get out of our 
carrioles stiffly enough after our long journey. 
The sleds are drawn into the timber, and our 
little party go at the work of clearing with snow- 
shoes a place for the camp. This accomplished, the 
fire is built, green boughs are laid for our beds, 
blankets and robes are brought forth ; and while 

* The term portage signifies a crossing or carrying place between two bodies of water. For instance : On a certain route w here canoes 
are used, there are a series of lakes separated from one another by narrow strips of land. We pass through lake No. i, in the direction 
of lake No, 2, searching for the narrowest strip separating them; a road is cut through the forest, over which the sturdy Indians carry 
the canoes and baggage, and launching their craft push on for No. 3. On much-frequented canoe routes these carrying-places have 
fine, wide roads, and bear suggestive tides, as " Turtle Portage," " Mossy Portage," etc. In winter these roads are used by travelers in 
order to pass from one frozen lake to another. 

f This battle appears to have taken place near the close of a terrific strife for the control of the rich fur trade of the North-west, which 
raged between the North-west Trading Company, with head-quarters at Montreal, and the Hudson's Bay Company, of London, England, 
the termination being the joining of the rivals under the title of the latter company. 



we stretch ourselves lazily before the bright fire 
of tamarack, our guide prepares supper, and his 
assistants unharness the dogs and prepare their 
meal of fresh white-fish. As we recline in perfect 
comfort, a shrike or butcher-bird, the first life w r e 
have seen in the woods to-day, hops from the 
bough above us, and helps itself from the pemmi- 
can-bag ; then flies saucily over our heads toward 
his cache, to return in a few moments for more. 
The shrike is truly a camp-bird, and on discovering 
the smoke from some newly built camp-fire, as it 
curls upward through the trees, does not rest till 
it has reached the camp and sampled the cookery. 
The Indian seldom molests this arch thief, but 
laughs quietly at its saucy chatter, having a belief 
that, in days past, Wah-se-i-ka-chak, as he calls 
it, has been in some way of service to his people. 
After a hearty supper of pemmican, potato, and 
bannock, we sit and listen to the monotonous tones 
of the Indians, who are recounting journeys to 
different parts of the far-north country, while they 
smoke their tiny stone pipes, filled with a mixture 
of willow bark and tobacco. Our twelve dogs are 
grouped on the solid drift, near the shore. The 
largest dog occupies the most elevated part of the 
bank, the place of honor, while the others sit 
solidly on their haunches and gaze steadily at their 
leader, who is now the picture of profundity, with 
a far-off, dreamy look in his eyes which his fellows 
are making a vain attempt to imitate. The moon 
is coming up now, and as it softly rises, causing 
the frost-covered trees to glisten in its light, the 
leader utters a plaintive wail, which is taken up by 
his companions, softly at first ; then the leader gives 
forth a louder cry, another, and soon the whole 
pack there in the weird light are howling in fearful 
discord. Suddenly the leader ceases, and gradu- 
ally the others become quiet, and curl themselves 
about the fire. The Indians soon are snoring in 
heavy sleep, the fire burns low, the trees crackle 
with frost, we hear a commingling of sounds, and, 
at last, sleep too. 

We rest comfortably, with nothing above our 
heads save the beautiful dome of heaven, with its 
twinkling stars, which are dimmed at times by the 
magnificent and ever-changing aurora, which here 
reaches its greatest brilliancy. The Indians call 
this electric phenomenon Wah-wah-tao, and fancy 
it to be the spirits of the departed dancing on 
the borders of the Land of the Hereafter. While 
it is yet dark our drivers arise, with sundry grunts 
and remarks in Indian language relative to the 
probable weather and winds of the coming day; 
and soon a large fire, crackling and sending sparks 
over our heads without regard to consecjuences, 
is the alarm which brings us quickly from our snug 
beds. We now assist in packing our baggage 

preparatory to a continuation of our journey. A 
light breakfast dispatched, our dogs are placed in 
harness, we take seats in the carrioles, and are 


away with speed through the gray light of dawn. 
After an hour's run, the sun comes up — a golden 
ball seen through the stunted and storm-beaten 






pines that find footing on the lichen-covered rocks 
of the shore. We sit up in our sleighs to enjoy 
the fresh, clear air, and, looking to the right, we 
discover land where, a few moments before, there 
was none to be seen. Our look of surprise is 
answered by one of the Indians, who, running 
alongside the sleigh, shouts: " Statim Minis!" 
(The Horse Islands!) It is a grand mirage, for 
the Statim Minis are islands at least seventy miles 

We fly along, our guides shouting alternately at 
the dogs and each other, apparently in the best of 
humor, now and again favoring us with snatches 
of Canadian boat-songs, no doubt caught up from 
the hardy voyageurs who go west in charge of 
bateaux from the banks of the rushing tributaries 
of the lower St. Lawrence. 

At sunset we arrive at a large Indian village, the 
entire population turning out to welcome us. This 
is a village of the Poplar River band, the wildest 
of the Lake Winnipeg Indians. During our halt 
of a few minutes, the old chief with his council 
appear, and have a few words with our men, while 
we must show our good and friendly feeling by 
presents of tobacco, clay pipes, etc. As we move 
away, our good-byes are answered by shouts of 
"Marchon, How marchon ! " ('' Good speed ! ") 

At dusk of evening we camp a few miles south 

of Poplar River, going through the same proced- 
ure as on the evening of the first camp. At two 
o'clock in the morning of the next day, while the 
clear moon is slowly going down in the west, we are 
slipping along a hard-beaten hunters' track which 
runs across the bay. During the. day we- skirt' a 
rough, rocky shore which lies to the left, and get 
glimpses of numerous islands on our right. In the 
early evening we arrive at Behrin's River Fort, a post 
of the trading company, where we are hospitably 
received by the officer in charge. We find in use 
at this place the St. Bernard dogs, very large and 
strong. Old travelers, however, will tell you that 
for long journeys, such as ours, the smaller dogs 
are preferable. It is not late, so let us accept the 
kind invitation of our host, and visit the trading- 
rooms of the fort. We follow him through a 
narrow passage, on one side of which is a short 
counter and at the end a heavy door, so built as to 
guard against surprise from hostile Indians, which, 
being swung back, admits us to the stores of Indian 
supplies — blankets, shirts, belts, and much-beaded 
moccasins ; while hanging from smoke - stained 
beams are flint-lock guns of the " Queen Anne " 
pattern, axes, knives, and copper kettles. There 
is no money used in the trade of this far-away 
country ; the beaver skin is recognized as the 
standard, and represents about five shillings ster- 



ling. We are somewhat amused, 0:1 asking the 
price of a pair of blankets, to get the reply, "Eight 
skins." Our guide leads us up a narrow stair to the 
fur-room, which has large beams and cross-tim- 
bers, hanging closely on which are all the varieties 
of northern furs — bear, wolf, beaver, fox, and mar- 
ten, with lynx, fisher, and ermine. In the month 
of June these furs are packed, and begin their 
journey to London by the way of the Norway 
House to York Factory on Hudson's Bay, where a 
steamer calls, in August or September, and takes 
the valuable bales on board for delivery in London. 

But we can not always stay in this land of bear 
and beaver, and when morning comes, after thank- 
ing Mr. Flett, our kind host-, for his care and atten- 
tion, we again move out on the lake, and, jogging 
along steadily, arrive at the narrows of Lake 
Winnipeg, called by the Indians " Anne Mustuk- 
won," or " Dog's Head." The lake at this point is 
but one and one-half miles in width, the shores of 
the east side being of hard, dark granite, while 
those of the westerly side are formed of high cliffs 
of lime and sandstone. 

A story is told of a party such as ours being lost 
in a severe snow-storm near this point. The guides 
not being able to decide on which shore of the 
lake they had strayed, one of the gentlemen of the 





, . IV' |^ 


party bethought himself of this difference in the 
formation of the rock, and, digging through the 
drift, at once solved the question. Our camp is 
made here, and in the morning we are off at full 
speed, passing during the forenoon Indian people 
fishing through holes in the ice, and bringing to 
the surface in their heavy nets beautiful white- 
fish. We pass Bull's Head, run through the Loon 
Straits, leave Grindstone Point on our right, and 
at night camp at the southern end of Red Deer 
Island. The camp to-night is in the enchanted 
country, and lying to the south-east is an island in 
which during summer, at break of dawn (according 
to our guide Mouiseau), the high wall of sandstone 
rock opens, and a giant, dragging after him a huge 
stone canoe, strides to the water's edge, launches 
his stony craft and pushes out into the broad lake, 
to return unseen for his voyage of the following 
morning. In passing this island it is customary to 
leave fragments of tobacco, and tea-leaves, as a 
peace-offering to the Phantom Giant of the Cliff. 

We are now but seventy miles from the track 
of the iron horse, and with extra exertion may on 
the morrow finish our journey. We are called 

very early, to find a bright fire and breakfast ready. 
It is apparent that our men mean to distinguish 
themselves as runners to-day. Great care is taken 
in the lacing of moccasins and fixing belts and 
leggings; the harness is carefully examined, and, all 
being in readiness, we dash down the steep bank 
and out upon the lake, over which we glide along, 
unable at times to distinguish land on either side. 

As the sun is low in the west, we run through a 
narrow, ice-bound channel, bordered on either side 
with tall, yellow reeds and rushes. Shortly after 
getting into this channel our half-breed guide, 
who is running swiftly before, turns and shouts, 
"Riviere Rouge " (Red River). 

And here our journey is virtually at an end, 
as in a few hours we arrive at a station of the 
Canadian Pacific Railway, where we secure pas- 
sage, and, after bidding farewell to our brave com- 
panions, who, strange to say, have become dear to 
us after a week's companionship, we roll away 
eastward, and passing through the cities of Winni- 
peg in Manitoba, St. Paul, Minnesota, and ever- 
busy Chicago, in the short space of three days 
we arrive at our homes on the Atlantic sea-board. 






By M. M. D. 

Heigho ! I 've left my B O, bo, 
And A B, ab — oh, long ago! 

And gone to letters three. 
(Dear me ! What does that last word spell 
The last I learned? I knew it well — 

It's W and E and B.) 

You see, I 've so much work to do — 
Scrubbing and sweeping, dusting too — 

I can't remember half I know. 
And oh ! the spiders drive me wild, 
Till Mother says: "What ails the child? 

What makes her fidget so ? " 
(Now, sakes alive ! What can it be — 

That W and E and B ?) 

Right after school is out, I run 
To do my work. It 's never done, 

But soon as any lesson 's said 

It goes and pops right out my head — 
All on account of dust and dirt. 
No matter how my hands may hurt, 

I sweep and toil the livelong day, 
And try to brush the things away. 
(It's all the spiders — don't you see?) 
And yet I 'm glad I 've learned to spell. 
(What is that word ? I knew it well — 

That W and E and B !) 

By Wm. Elliot Griffis. 

Who ever heard of catching whales with a net, 
or of eating whale's meat? Yet both are done by 
Japanese sailors. 

The whale-fishery of Japan is carried on as a 
regular business on both coasts of the country ; but 
more men are employed, and the catch of whales 
is larger, off the eastern coast, especially off Kii 
province. A line drawn southward from Kioto, 
Lake Biwa, or Ozaka, will cut the Kii whaling- 
waters, and help one to find it on the map. 

The great Gulf Stream of the Pacific, which the 
Japanese call the Kuro Shiwo, or Dark Current, on 
account of its deep blue color, rushes up from the 
south, and scours the Kii promontory like a mill- 
sluice. It is so sharply distinguishable from com- 
mon sea-water that from the prow of a ship one 
can discern the line that divides the two colors. 
The starboard may be in the pale-green or sky- 
blue, while the larboard lies in the indigo or inky 
part. A bucket of water taken up from one side 




will be twelve or fourteen degrees colder than one 
dipped simultaneously from over the opposite gun- 
wale. The Kuro Shiwo is really a river flowing 
in the ocean. It lies upon, but does not mix with, 
the sea. Rising in the tropics, below Formosa, 

whalemen are divided into scullers, netters, and 
harpooners, or grappling-iron men. Japanese 
never row, but scull with curiously bent long 
sweeps, which swing on a half-round knob set into 
a pivot, the handle end being usually strapped at 


and flowing up and across the Pacific, it bends 
around Alaska to California, and then crosses to 
the Sandwich Islands. A plank set floating off 
Formosa will travel in a few weeks to Honolulu, 
if not picked up. 

The whales seem to enjoy the dark current as 
a promenade or ocean avenue ; but at certain 
promontories, like that of Kii, they come quite 
near the shore, or swim around into the eddies, for 
recreation or for food. 

The fishermen of the little town of Koza have a 
lookout-tower perched upon the rocks, far up on 
the hill-side. A sentinel is kept constantly watch- 
ing for the spouting kujiri ("number-one fish"), as 
the natives call the whale. Long boats, holding 
from four to ten men, are kept ready launched. 
These hardy fellows row with tremendous energy, 
as if in a prize race. If the whales are numerous, 
the men wait in their boats, with sculls on their 
pins and straps ready to slip on at a moment's 
notice, all in order to put out to sea. A gay flag 
with a curious device floats at each stern. The 

the proper height. The device on each flag is 
different, and spears, nets, and grappling-irons are 
marked, so that the most skillful get proper credit 
for their courage, sure aim, and celerity. 

The boatmen are lightly clad in short, sleeveless 
cotton jackets, with leggings, like greaves, reaching 
from knee to ankle. Around their waists are kilts 
made of coarse rice-straw. The nets, which are 
about twenty feet square, with meshes three feet 
wide, are made of tough sea-grass rope, two inches 

Twenty or thirty of these nets are provided, and 
then lightly tied together, so as to make one huge 
net, from four hundred to six hundred feet long. 
As soon as the signal from the tower is given, the 
boats put out. two by two, each pair of the larger 
boats having the net tackle, and all armed with 
darts and spears. Rowing in front of the whale, 
the net is dropped in his path. If skillfully done, 
the huge fish runs his nose or jaw into a mesh. He 
at once dives, and tries to shake off the net. This 
he can not do, for the square in which he is en- 



I I I 

tangled immediately breaks off from the rest, 
which is hauled on board, ready for another drop. 
Should this also be successful, the game is soon 
up with the whale. Usually, the more he flounders, 
the more tightly his terrible collars hold him, 
entangling his fins and quickly exhausting his 
strength. No sooner does he rise for breath than 
the rowers dash close to him, giving the harpoon- 
ers an opportunity to hurl their darts at his big 
body, until he looks like an exaggerated pin- 
cushion. As his struggles become weaker, the 
grappling-irons are thrown on and the boats tow 
the carcass near shore. 

The whalemen carefully avoid the enraged 
animal's tail, and it is only occasionally that one 
of them is killed. In a good season, fifty whales 
will be taken. This method of whale-hunting was 
first practiced about the year 1680. When nets 
are not used, as in some places, the number of 
boats must be increased, and they must be smaller, 
so as to admit of rapid movements, and a good 
supply of harpoons must be on hand. 

is the jolliest part of the work, as the casting of 
the net is the most exciting. 

The whale is now cut up into chunks. Its tidbits 
go on the fisherman's gridiron, or are pickled, 
boiled, roasted, or fried. Japanese whales arc 
caught more for food than for oil, and are leaner 
than their brethren of the Arctic seas. Some oil 
is, however, tried out from the blubber. Even 
the bones, when fresh and tender, arc eaten. Of 
the others they make ropes, springs, and steel- 
yards for weighing gold and silver. Nothing 
seems to be thrown away, except the shoulder-bone. 

The ordinary dry-goods measure of Japan is 
called a " whale-foot," and is two inches longer 
than the " metal-foot" with which wood and stone 
are measured. The origin of this difference, ac- 
cording to legend, is as follows : Long ago, a great 
white whale, the king of the northern seas, having 
heard of the fame and great size of the bronze image 
of Buddha at Kamakura, went in high dudgeon and 
compared his length with that of Dai Butsu, the 
statue. Greatly to his relief, the image was found 



To land their prize, the successful hunters lash to be two inches shorter than his spouting majesty, 

about it stout straw ropes, and attach to them a who thereupon whisked his tail in triumph and 

cable, winding the other end around a windlass returned home. Hence the "whale-foot" is two 

set upon the beach. Then, with gay and lively inches longer than the "metal-foot," as every 

songs, they haul the enormous mass ashore. This Japanese boy knows. 

I I 2 




Bv Isabel Frances Bellows. 

A is for Apt little Annie, 

Who lives down in Maine with her grannie. 

Such pies she can make ! 

And such doughnuts and cake ! 

Oh, we like to make visits to Grannie ! 

B is for Bad little Bridget, 

Who is morn, noon, and night in a fidget. 

Her dresses she tears, 

And she tumbles down-stairs, 

And her mother 's most worn to a midget. 

C is for Curious Charlie', 

Who lives on rice, oatmeal, and barley. 

He once wrote a sonnet 

On his mother's best bonnet ; 

And he lets his hair grow long and snarley. 

D is for Dear little Dinah, 

Whose manners grow finer and finer. 

She smiles and she bows 

To the pigs and the cows, 

And she calls the old cat Angelina. 



I I 

E is for Erring young Edward, 
Who never can bear to go bedward. 
Every evening at eight 
He bewails his hard fate, 
And they 're all quite discouraged with 

F is for Foolish Miss Florence, 
Who of spiders has such an abhorrence 
That she shivers with dread 
When she looks overhead, 
For she lives where they 're plenty — at 

G is for Glad little Gustave, 

Who says that a monkey he must have ; 

But his mother thinks not, 

And says that they 've got 

All the monkev they care for in Gustave. 

Vol. X.— 8. 

H is for Horrid young Hannah, 

Who has the most shocking bad manner. 

Once she went out to dine 

With a party of nine, 

And she ate every single banana. 




I is for Ignorant Ida. 

Who does n't know rhubarb from cider. 

Once she drank up a quart, 

Which was more than she ought. 

And it gave her queer feelings inside her. 

J is for Jovial young Jack, 

Who goes to the balls in a hack. 

He thinks he can dance, 

And he '11 caper and prance 

Till his joints are half ready to crack. 

K is for Kind little Katy. 

Who weighs 'most a hundred and eighty : 

But she eats every day, 

And the doctors all say 

That 's the reason she 's growing so weighty. 

L is for Lazy young Leicester, 
Who works for a grocer in Chester; 
But he says he needs rest. 
And he finds it is best 
To take everv dav a siesta. 



M is for Mournful Miss Molly, 

Who likes to be thought melancholy. 

She 's as limp as a rag 

When her sisters play tag, 

For it 's vulgar, she says, to be jolly. 

N is for Naughty young Nat, 
Who sat on his father's best hat. 
When they asked if he thought 
He had done as he ought, 
He said he supposed 't was the cat ! 

- -^ 

O 's Operatic Olivia, 

Who visits her aunt in Bolivia. 

She can sing to high C — 

But, between you and me, 

They don't care for that in Bolivia. 

P is for Poor little Paul, 
Who does n't like study at all. 
But he 's learning to speak 
In Hebrew and Greek, 




is for Queer little Queen, 

Who 's grown so excessively lean 

That she fell in a crack, 

And hurt her poor back, 

And they say she can hardly be seen. 

R is for Rude Master Ruby, 

Who once called his sister a booby ! 

But a boy who stood by 

Heard her piteous cry, 

And came and chastised Master Ruby. 




S is for Stylish young Sadie, 
Whose hat is so big and so shady 
That she thought it was night 
When the sun was out bright, 
And mistook an old cow for a lady. 

T is for Turbulent Teddy, 

Who never can learn to be steady. 

He '11 skip and he '11 hop, 

And turn 'round like a top, 

And he 's broken his leg twice already. 


I I 

U is Unhappy Ulrica, 

V is for Valiant young Vivian, W is Wise little Willie, 

Who takes her tea weaker and Who practiced awhile in obli- Who lives where the weather 

weaker ; 
She sits in the dust 
And eats nothing but crust. 

vion ; 
Till he saw, without doubt, 
He could turn inside out, 

is chilly ; 
But he skates and he slides, 
And takes lots of sleigh-rides, 

And Moses, they say, was n't And now they 're all boasting And he coasts on his sled where 


of Vivian. 

it 's hilly. 

- %r 


. p9 

X, Y, Z — each is a baby 
Who is going to be wonderful, 
maybe ; 

For their mothers all say 
To themselves every day, 
That there never was quite such a baby. 

i iS 




By Frank R. Stockton. 

THERE was once a kingdom in which everything 
seemed to go wrong. Everybody knew this, and 
everybody talked about it, especially the King. 
The bad state of affairs troubled him more than it 
did any one else, but he could think of no way to 
make them better. 

" I can not bear to see things going on so 
badly," he said to the Queen and his chief 
councilors. "I wish I knew how other kingdoms 
were governed." 

One of his councilors offered to go to some 
other countries, and see how they were governed, 
and come back and tell him all about it, but this 
did not suit his majesty. 

" You would simply come back," he said, " and 
give me your ideas about things. I want my own 

The Queen then suggested that he should take 
a vacation, and visit other kingdoms, and see for 
himself how things were managed in them. 

This did not suit the King. " A vacation would 
not answer," he said. " I should not be gone a 
week before something would happen here which 
would make it necessary to come back." 

The Queen then suggested that he be banished 
for a certain time, say a year. In that case he 
could not come back, and would be at full liberty 
to visit foreign kingdoms, and find out how they 
were governed. 

This idea pleased the King. "If it were made 
impossible for me to come back," he said, " of 
course I could not do it. The plan is a good one. 
Let me be banished." And he gave orders that 
his council should pass a law banishing him for 
one year. 

Preparations were immediately begun to earn- 
out thic plan, and in a day or two the King took 
leave of the Queen, and left his kingdom, a ban- 
ished man. He went away on foot, entirely unat- 
tended. But, as he did not wish to cut off all 
communication between himself and his kingdom, 
he devised a plan which he thought a very good 
one. At easy shouting distance behind him 
walked one of the officers of the court, and at 
shouting distance behind him walked another, and 
so on at distances of about a hundred yards from 
each other. In this way there would always be a 
line of men extending from the King to his palace. 
Whenever the King had walked a hundred yards 
the line moved on after him, and another officer 
was put in the gap between the last man and the 

palace door. Thus, as the King walked on, his 
line of followers lengthened, and was never broken. 
Whenever he had any message to send to the 
Queen, or any other person in the palace, he 
shouted it to the officer next him, who shouted 
it to the one next to him, and it was so passed 
on until it reached the palace. If he needed 
food, clothes, or any other necessary thing, the 
order for it was shouted along the line, and the 
article was passed to him from man to man, each 
one carrying it forward to his neighbor, and then 
retiring to his proper place. 

In this way the King walked on day by day 
until he had passed entirely out of his own king- 
dom. At night he stopped at some convenient 
house on the road, and if any of his followers did 
not find himself near a house or cottage when the 
King shouted back the order to halt, he just laid 
himself down to sleep wherever he might be. By 
this time the increasing line of followers had used 
up all the officers of the court, and it became 
necessary to draw upon some of the under-govern- 
ment officers in order to keep the line perfect. 

The King had not gone very far outside the 
limits of his dominions when he met a Sphinx. 
He had often heard of these creatures, although 
he had never seen one before. But when he saw 
the winged body of a lion with a woman's head, he 
knew instantly what it was. He knew, also, that 
the chief business of a Sphinx was supposed to be 
that of asking people questions, and then getting 
them into trouble if the right answers were not 
given. He therefore determined that he would 
not be caught by any such tricks as these, and that 
he would be on his guard if the Sphinx spoke to 
him. The creature was lying down when the King 
first saw it, but when he approached nearer it rose 
to its feet. There was nothing savage about its 
look, and the King was not at all afraid. 

"Where are you going?" said the Sphinx to 
him, in a pleasant voice. 

"Give it up," replied the King. 

"What do you mean by that?" said the other, 
looking surprised. 

" I give that up, too," said the King. 

The Sphinx then looked at him quite aston- 

"I don't mind telling you," said the King, "of 
my own free-will, and not in answer to any 
questions, that I do not know where I am going. 
I am a king, as you may have noticed, and I 




have been banished from my kingdom for a year. 
I am now going to look into the government of 
other countries in order that I may find out what 
it is that is wrong in my own kingdom. Every- 
thing goes badly, and there is something wrong at 


'where are you going?' said the sphinx, in a pleasant voice 

the bottom of it all. What this is I want to dis- 

" I am much interested in puzzles and matters 
of that kind," said the Sphinx, "and if you like I 
will go with you and help to find out what is wrong 
in your kingdom." 

"All right," said the King. "I shall be glad 
of your company." 

" What is the meaning of this long line of 
people following you at regular distances ? " asked 
the Sphinx. 

" Give it up," said the King. 

The Sphinx laughed. 

" I don't mind telling you," said the King, " of 
my own free-will, and not in answer to any ques- 
tion, that these men form a line of communication 
between me and my kingdom, where things, I fear, 
must be going on worse than ever, in my absence." 

The two now traveled on together until they 
came to a high hill, from which they could see, not 
very far away, a large city. 

" That city," said the'Sphinx, " is the capital of 
an extensive country. It is governed by a king of 
mingled sentiments. Suppose we go there. I think 
you will find a government that is rather peculiar." 

The King consented, and they walked down the 
hill toward the city. 

" How did the King get his sentiments mingled?" 
asked the King. 

"I really don't know how it began," said the 
Sphinx, "but the King, 
when a young man, had so 
many sentiments of differ- 
ent kinds, and he mingled 
them up so much, that 
no one could ever tell ex- 
actly what he thought on 
any particular subject. Of 
course, his people gradu- 
ally got into the same frame 
of mind, and you never 
can know in this kingdom 
exactly what people think 
or what they are going to 
do. You will find all sorts 
of people here : giants, 
dwarfs, fairies, gnomes, 
and personages of that 
kind, who have been drawn 
here by the mingled sen- 
timents of the people. I, 
myself, came into these 
parts because the people 
every now and then take 
a great fancy to puzzles 
and riddles." 

On entering the city, 
the King was cordially welcomed by his brother 
sovereign, to whom he told his story ; and he 
was lodged in a room in the palace. Such of his 
followers as came within the limits of the city were 
entertained by the persons near to whose houses 
they found themselves when the line halted. 

Every day the Sphinx went with him to see the 
sights of this strange city. They took long walks 
through the streets, and sometimes into the sur- 
rounding country — always going one way and 
returning another, the Sphinx being very careful 
never to bring the King back by the same road or 
street by which they went. In this way the King's 
line of followers, which, of course, lengthened out 
every time he took a walk, came to be arranged in 
long loops through many parts of the city and 

Many of the things the King saw showed 
plainly the mingled sentiments of the people. For 
instance, he would one day visit a great smith's- 
shop, where heavy masses of iron were being 
forged, the whole place resounding with tremen- 
dous blows from heavy hammers, and the clank 
and din of iron on the anvils ; while the next day 
he would find the place transformed into a studio. 






where the former blacksmith was painting dainty 
little pictures on the delicate surface of egg-shells. 
The King of the country, in his treatment of his 
visitor, showed his peculiar nature very plainly. 
Sometimes he would receive him with enthusiastic 
delight, while at others he would upbraid him 
with having left his dominions to go wandering 
around the earth this way. 

One day, our King was sitting rather disconso- 
lately in the garden of the palace. His host had 
invited him to attend a royal dinner that day, but, 
when he went to the grand dining-hall, pleased 
with anticipations of a splendid feast, he found 
that the sentiments of his majesty had become 
mingled, and that he had determined, instead of 
having a dinner, to conduct the funeral services of 
one of his servants who had died the day before. 
All the guests had been obliged by politeness to 
remain during the ceremonies, which our King, 
not having been acquainted with the deceased serv- 
ant, had nut found at all interesting. Another 
thing troubled him ; his long walks had nearly worn 
out his shoes, and, although he had sent through 
his line of communication an order for a fresh 
pair, he had already waited for them a greater 
time than he had ever waited for anything before. 
It took a long time for an order to go through all 
the immense loops in which his followers were now 
arranged in the city, and then to the comparatively 
straight line between this city and his kingdom. 

While sitting thus, he perceived a Genie walking 
meditatively down one of the paths. Perceiving 
him. the Genie stopped and asked what was the 
matter with him. The King did not say anything 
about the lost dinner and the funeral, because 
he thought the Genie might possibly belong to the 
court, but he told him how troubled he was about 
his boots. 

" You need not annoy yourself about a matter 
of that kind," said the Genie, smiling. "What 
size do you wear? " 

"Eights," said the King. 

The Genie clapped his mighty hands, and in a 
moment an Attendant Sprite appeared. 

" A pair of number eight boots," said the Genie 
— " best leather and purple tops." 

Instantly the Attendant Sprite disappeared, and 
the Genie, without waiting for the thanks of the 
King, pursued his meditative walk. In a short 
time, the Attendant Sprite returned, bearing on a 
silver salver a beautiful pair of new boots. The 
King tried them on, and they fitted admirably. 

'• I am very glad you brought me the boots," he 
said to the Attendant Sprite. " I was very much 
afraid that on the way your sentiments would be- 
come mingled, and that you might bring me a 

" No," said the little fellow, " I am not one of 
the regular inhabitants of this city, and I don't 
mingle my sentiments much, although if I were 


I 21 

to do so a little, just now, it would not surprise me, 
for I am greatly worried in my mind." 

"What troubles you ? " asked the King. 

"Well," replied the Attendant Sprite, putting 
his silver salver upon the ground, and seating him- 
self in it, "I am afraid I 'm an orphan, and that is 
enough to trouble me, I am sure." 

"You are not certain of it, then?" asked the 

" Yes," said the other, " I really may be certain 
of it. You see that we attendant sprites have no 
parents when we make our appearance in this 
world, and if we want to be taken care of, we are 
obliged to adopt a pair of parents as soon as pos- 
sible. For a long time I had very good parents. 
They did not know each other, but sometimes one 
cared for me, and sometimes the other. But now 
they have become acquainted, and have actually- 
gone off to get married. Of course, they will care 
no more for me. My parents are lost to me. It 
is especially hard for me to be an orphan, for the 

world who needs as much as I do some parents to 
take care of him and make him comfortable on 
the rare occasions when he gets a chance to take 
a little rest." 

" Poor fellow !" said the King. "What do you 
intend to do ? " 

'• I must look for another pair," replied the 
other, "as soon as I can get the time." 

" How would I do? " asked the King. " Should 
you like me for one of your parents ? " 

" You would do splendidly," cried the Attendant 
Sprite, springing up. " I will take you, if you say 

" Very well," answered the King. " I will be one 
of them." 

" I am very much obliged," said the Attendant 
Sprite; "and now I will look up the other one." 
And away he ran. 

The next day the King was in the garden again, 
talking with the Sphinx, when the Attendant 
Sprite re-appeared. 



Genie, my master, gives me a great deal of work " I have got the other one," he said, " or, at 
to do, and some of his errands are very long and least, I had her." And he began feeling in his 
difficult. There isn't an attendant sprite in the pockets. " Oh, here she is ! " he cried directly. 




And he pulled out a little Pigwidgeon Fairy, about 
six inches high. 

This small creature looked rather old for her 
size, and was dressed in a short-gown and petti- 
coat, and wore a speckled sun-bonnet. 

"Now I am all right," he cried. "There's a 
father !" he said, pointing to the King ; " and here," 
holding up the Pigwidgeon, "is a mother! Now, 
then, I shall have a chance to be happy and com- 

Just then he stopped, and looked as if he had 
been struck by a chill. " Oh, dear ! " he cried, "the 
Genie has summoned me." And he was off in an 

" Poor dear ! poor dear ! "cried the Pigwidgeon, 
wringing her little hands. " This sort of thing will 
kill him before long. He tells me he hardly ever 
has a minute to rest. His constitution wont stand 

"But what is to be done?" said the King. "1 
suppose he has to go when the Genie summons 

" But he ought n't to have to go ! " cried the Pig- 
widgeon. "Is n't there some way to get rid of 

"I have heard," said the Sphinx, " that there 
is only one way of not doing what a Genie tells 
you to do when he is your master. You must re- 
verse his summons." 

" How do you do that ? " asked the King. 

" I really can not tell you," replied the Sphinx, 
"because I have never heard. To find out that, 
we shall have to consult a Sage." 

For this purpose they set out immediately, the 
King carrying the Pigwidgeon in his pocket. They 
walked a long, long way before they came to the 
home of the Sage. In fact, they made a great cir- 
cuit in going to this place, and the officer of the 
court who followed next to him remarked to him- 
self that if the Sphinx did not take the King by 
such roundabout ways there would not be half as 
much walking for them all to do. 

The Sage was at home, and their business was 
soon explained. The learned man took down 
some old books from a high shelf, and turned to a 
chapter which treated of the summonses of Genii. 
After considerable study and thought, he an- 
nounced to his visitors that the way to reverse the 
summons of a Genie was to mingle his sentiments. 

"There is nothing particularly learned about 
that," exclaimed the King. " In this city that sort 
of thing is done all the time." 

" Nevertheless," said the Sage, closing the book, 
" that is the way to do it. Five drachmas of silver, 
if you please." 

The King paid the fee, and left the house very 
angry. " That is a regular imposition," he said 

to the Sphinx. " Anybody in this place would 
have told us exactly the same thing." 

" Perhaps so." said the Sphinx, with a mystic 
smile, " but I think we had better try it." 

" Indeed we must ! " cried the little Pigwid- 
geon, putting her head out of the King's pocket. 
" We must do everything we can to save our poor 
dear from killing himself with errand-running for 
this Genie." 

" But how is it to be done ? " asked the King. 

" We must think that over," answered the 

When they reached the palace garden they 
found the Attendant Sprite waiting for them. He 
was very tired, and was lying on his back on the 
grass. By this time the Sphinx had thought 
thoroughly over the matter, and he now proposed 
a plan. 

" The next time the Attendant Sprite is sum- 
moned," said the Sphinx, "he must go to the 
Genie, of course, but let him refuse to obey his 
commands. If that does not mingle his sentiments 
I shall be very much surprised. Then we shall see 
what will happen." 

" I don't believe anything will happen, except, 
perhaps, that he will be punished," said the King; 
"but, as there is nothing else to be done, we will 
try it." 

"Oh, yes," replied the Pigwidgeon, "we will 
try it. We '11 try anything to save our poor dear 
from his dreadful life." 

" It will be pretty hard on me," said the Attend- 
ant Sprite, stretching his arms and legs out on the 
grass ; " but I suppose I '11 have to try it." 

It was not long before the little fellow sprang to 
his feet. He felt a summons from the Genie, and 
was off in an instant. Impelled by some invisible 
power he found himself in a very short time in one 
of the rooms belonging to the ladies of the palace. 
On a divan sat a beautiful and richly dressed 
Princess, and beside her stood the Genie. 

"Go, minion," said the Genie, "to the top of 
yonder high mountain. There you will find a 
lovely garden surrounded by a crystal wall. In 
the center of that garden stands a rose-bush more 
beautiful than any bush that grows. On the bush 
is a single damask rose, with a great pearl lying 
like a drop of dew on its crimson bosom. Go and 
pluck that rose, and bring it instantly to this fair 

" I can't do it," said the Attendant Sprite. 
" It 's dreadfully tiresome going up high mount- 
ains, and I always cut my legs when I climb over 
crystal walls." 

"What! " cried the Genie, turning black with 
rage. " Do you refuse ?" 

" Yes," said the little fellow, looking up at the 



Genie, with his legs outspread and his hands 
behind his back. " I refuse, point-blank." 

The Genie was so moved by rage that he turned 
and twisted like the smoke from the chimney of a 
forge. " Go back ! " he cried, his form trembling 
until the house shook, " to whatever wretched spot 
you came from, and nevermore be slave of mine ! " 

The Attendant Sprite turned, and was gone in 
an instant. Reaching the palace garden he threw 
himself upon the grass. " It is all right," he said 
to his parents and the Sphinx. " I mingled his senti- 
ments, and the summons is reversed." 

"A united family!" exclaimed the Pigwidgeon, 
taking off her sun-bonnet, and smoothing her hair. 

" Now, then," said the King, " I am in favor of 
moving on. I am tired of this place, where every 
sentiment is so mingled with others that you can 
never tell what anybody really thinks or feels. I 
don't believe any one in this country was ever 
truly glad or sorry. They mix one sentiment so 
quickly with another that they never have, so far 
as I can see, anything but a sort of mushy feeling 
which amounts to nothing at all." 

" When the King first began to mingle his 
sentiments," said the Sphinx, " it was because he 
always wished to think and feel exactly right. He 
did not wish his feelings to run too much one way 
or the other." 

" And so he is never either right or wrong," said 
the King. "I don't like that, at all. I want to 
be either one thing or the other." 

" I want to be one thing," said the Attendant 
Sprite, as he lay upon the grass, "and that is 
comfortable. Anybody who likes can be the 

"I have wasted a good deal of time at this 
place," said the King, as they walked on, "and I 
have seen and heard nothing which I wish to teach 
my people. And yet I desire very much to do 
something which will prevent everything from 
going wrong as it does now. I have tried plan 
after plan, and sometimes two or three together, 
and have kept this up year after year, and yet 
nothing seems to do my kingdom any good." 

" Have you heard how things are going on there 
now ? " asked the Sphinx. 

"Give it up," said the King. 

This very much surprised the Pigwidgeon, who 
was always glad to get news of any kind, and had 
put her head out of the King's pocket, the better to 
hear how his kingdom was coming on. "What 
do you mean by that?" she asked quickly. 

"I never answer a question put to me by a 
Sphinx," said the King. "There is no knowing 
what trouble it might lead to. But I don't mind 
saying of my own accord, and not as answer to any 
question, that I have sent a good many communi- 

cations to my Queen, but have never received any 
from her. So I do not know how things are going 
on in my kingdom." 

" I dare say she thinks you would meddle if she 
tells you what she is doing. I think she must be 
a very wise Queen," said the Pigwidgeon. " And 
now I want to say that I believe that is all stuff 
about answering the Sphinx's questions. I am not 
to be frightened by anything of that sort. Wont 
you ask me a question ? " she said, turning to the 

" How do you do?" gravely asked the Sphinx. 

" Very well, indeed," answered the Pigwidgeon. 

" There ! " she said, looking around triumphantly 
before she cuddled herself down for another nap in 
the King's pocket. 

The party now went on for an hour or more, the 
King and the Sphinx walking side by side ; the 
Attendant Sprite skipping in front of them; the 
little Pigwidgeon sleeping quietly in the King's 
pocket ; and the long line of followers coming 
after, keeping their relative positions a hundred 
yards apart, and passing over all the ground the 
King had traversed in his circuitous walks about 
the city. Thus the line crept along like an enor- 
mous snake in straight lines, loops, and coils; and 
every time the King walked a hundred yards a 
fresh man from his capital city was obliged to take 
his place at the tail of the procession. 

" There is one thing we have found out," said the 
Attendant Sprite, after a while, as he came down 
from a tree where he had been gathering plums, 
"and that is that resistance to tyranny is the root 
of joy." 

"There is no tyranny in my dominions," said 
the King, "so there is no need of learning any- 
thing about that." 

" Oh, of course not ! " said the little Pigwidgeon, 
popping out her head, and looking back at the 
long line of followers who had been obliged to 
leave their homes and families to trudge after the 
King in his wanderings. Nothing was said in an- 
swer to this, and after a time the Pigwidgeon made 
another remark. " If you want to see a kingdom 
where there really is something to learn, you ought 
to go to the country of the Pigwidgeons," she 

"All right," said the King. " Let 's go there." 

And so, under the direction of the little creature, 
they started to walk to her country. She wanted 
to go there herself, she said, and would be very 
glad to show them the way. In the course of the 
afternoon they reached the edge of a high bluff. 
"On the level ground, beneath this precipice," 
she said, " is the country of the Pigwidgeons. 
You can sit on the edge of the bluff and look down 
upon it." 




The King, the Sphinx, and the Attendant Sprite 
then sat down, and looked out from the edge over 
the country of the little people. The officer of the 
court who had formed the head of the line wished 
very much to see what they were looking at, but, 
when the line halted, he was not near enough. 

" There now, you see," said the Pigwidgeon, 
"is the land of my people. You will notice that 
the little houses and huts are gathered together in 
clusters, and each one of these clusters is under a 
separate king." 

"Why don't they all live under one ruler?" 
asked the King. " That is the proper way." 

" No, it is n't," said the Pigwidgeon quickly, 
"not if you want everything to go on right. You 

them and govern them well, they will gradually 
drop off from him and go to other clusters, and he 
will be left without any people or any kingdom." 

" That is a very queer way of ruling," said the 
King. " I think the people ought to try to please 
their sovereign." 

" Heis only one, and they are a great many," 
said the Pigwidgeon. " Consequently they are 
much more important. We know how to do 
things here, and everything goes on all right. No 
subject is ever allowed to look down upon a king, 
just because he helps to feed and clothe him, and 
send his children to school. If anyone were to do 
a thing of this kind, he would be banished until he 
learned better. I was banished for this very thing. 


might as well have one father for all the families in 
your city, and I am sure nobody would like that. 
In each of these clusters live the Pigwidgeons who 
are best suited to each other ; and, if any Pigwid- 
geon finds he can not get along in one cluster, he 
goes to another. The kings are chosen from 
among the very best of us, and each one is always 
very anxious to please his subjects. He knows 
that everything that he, and his queen, and his 
children eat, or drink, or wear, or have must be 
given to him by his subjects, and if it were not for 
them he would not be anything at all. And so he 
does everything that he can to make them happy 
and contented, for he knows if he does not please 

I went to see our queen one day, and I suppose I 
was a little airy when I saw her wearing the 
clothes and eating the food I had helped to give 
her. And so I was banished." 

" For how long?" asked the Attendant Sprite. 
" 1 was ordered to stay away," she said, " as 
long as my sun-bonnet was clean and my clothes 
were not torn. Now, I want you all to look at 
me," she continued, turning herself around as she 
stood before them, " and tell me if I am really fit 
to be seen. My sun-bonnet is all crumpled up 
from sleeping in it, and there are several holes in 
my short-gown and petticoat." 

Everybody agreed that her clothes were certainly 



soiled and worn-out enough to entitle her to return 
to her home. 

" All right," she said ; " I am going down to my 
people. There is a little winding path here, by 
which I can walk down easily. If everything is all 
right, I will call for the Attendant Sprite, and he 
shall bring you something to eat. Are you not 
hungry ? " 

The King was obliged to admit that he was. 
Food had been regularly passed to him from his 
palace, but the line of communication had now 
become so long that it took a great while to reach 
him, and was often very stale and cold before he 
got it. Sometimes it was spoiled on the way, and 
then it was not passed on any further. So the 
King, who had now been waiting a long time for 
his dinner, which probably had been started to him 
two or three days before, was very glad to get 
something to eat, although he did not think his 
appetite would be satisfied by the little mites of 
food the Pigwidgeons must live upon. But when, 
in a short time, the Pigwidgeon parent, in a clean 
speckled sun-bonnet, and new short-gown and 
petticoat, appeared at the bottom of the cliff and 
called the Attendant Sprite to come down, he did 
not have to wait long for a very good dinner. When 
the Attendant Sprite returned, clambering up the 
face of the cliff almost as quickly as he had gone 
down, he bore with him a barn-full of fresh loaves 
of bread, and a quantity of fruit. The loaves of 
bread were no larger than very little biscuits, and 
the fruit was like currants or elder-berries, but 
they were both sweet and delicious, and there was 
enough to give the three companions a good meal. 
The first man in the line of followers looked very 
much as if he would have liked to have had 
some of these good things, but he was too far 
away to expect any to be offered him. 

Before long the little Pigwidgeon came toiling 
up the winding path, and rejoined her former com- 
panions. "It's all right with me down there," 
she said, "and my time of banishment is over. I 
wish you could go clown to see what a happy con- 
dition our country is in. The people are so good, 
and so kind to their kings, and the kings are so 
grateful for all that their subjects are doing for 
them, and so anxious to preserve their good opin- 
ion, that everything is going on beautifully." 

"That may be very well for Pigwidgeons," said 
the King, " but I can learn nothing from a govern- 
ment like that, where everything seems to be work- 
ing in an opposite direction from what everybody 
knows is right and proper. A king anxious to 
deserve the good opinion of his subjects ! What 
nonsense ! It ought to be just the other way." 

" It ought n't to be the other way, at all ! " cried 
the Pigwidgeon, sharply, "and you could learn a 

great deal from our government, if you chose ! 
But you don't seem able to learn anything at all 
here, and so you had better go on, and try to 
find some other government that is better than 
ours. You '11 have a long walk of it, I can tell 
you ! I am going home to my people." And so 
saying, she ran down the little path. 

The King now again took up the line of march, 
turning away from the country of the Pigwidgeons. 
But he had not gone more than two or three hun- 
dred yards before he received a message from the 
Queen. It came to him very rapidly, every man 
in the line seeming anxious to shout it to the man 
ahead of him as quickly as possible. The message 
was to the effect that he must either stop where 
he was or come home : his constantly lengthening 
line of communication had used up all the chief 
officers of the government, all the clerks in the 
departments, and all the officials of every grade, 
excepting the few who were actually necessary to 
carry on the government, and if any more men 
went into the line it would be necessary to call 
upon the laborers and other persons who could not 
be spared. 

" I think," said the Sphinx, " that you have 
made your line long enough." 

"And I think," said the King, "that you made 
it a great deal longer than it need have been, by- 
taking me about in such twisty-ma-curl ways." 

"It may be so," said the Sphinx, with his mys- 
tic smile. 

" Well, I am not going to stop here," said the 
King, " and so I might as well go back as soon as 
I can." And he shouted to the head man of the 
line to pass on the order that his edict of banish- 
ment be revoked. 

In a very short time the news came that the 
edict was revoked. The King then commanded 
that the procession return home, tail end foremost. 
The march was immediately begun, each man, as 
soon as he reached the city, going immediately to 
his home and family. 

The King and the greater part of the line had 
a long and weary journey, as they followed each 
other through the country and over the devious 
ways in which the Sphinx had led them in the City 
of Mingled Sentiments. The King was obliged 
to pursue all these devious turns, or be separated 
from his officers, and so break up his communica- 
tion with his palace. The Sphinx and Attendant 
Sprite accompanied him. 

When, at last, he reached his palace, his line of 
former followers having apparently melted entirely 
away, he hurried upstairs to the Oueen, leaving 
the Attendant Sprite and the Sphinx in the court- 

The King found, when he had time to look into 




the affairs of his dominions, that everything was in 
the most admirable condition. The Queen had 
selected a few of those officials who were best 
qualified to carry on the government, and had 
ordered the rest to fall, one by one, into the line 
of communication. The King set himself to work 
to think about the matter. It was not long before 
he came to the conclusion that the main thing 
which had been wrong in his kingdom was him- 
self. He was so greatly impressed with this idea 
that he went down to the court-yard to speak to the 
Sphinx about it. 

" I dare say you are right," said the Sphinx, 
" and I don't wonder that what you learned when 
you were away, and what you have seen since you 
came back, have made you feel certain that you 
were the cause of everything going wrong in this 
kingdom. And now, what are you going to do 
about your government? " 

"Give it up," promptly replied the King. 

"That is exactly what I should do," said the 
Sphinx ; and the Attendant Sprite remarked that 
he thought under the circumstances he would do it 

The King did give up his kingdom. He was 
convinced that being a king was exactly the thing 
he was not suited for, and that he would get on 
much better in some other business or profession. 

He determined to be a traveler and explorer, and 
to go abroad into other countries to find out things 
that might be useful to his own nation. His 
Queen had shown that she could govern the 
country in the very best manner, and it was not at 
all necessary for him to stay at home. She had 
ordered all the men who had made up his line to 
follow the King's example and to go into some 
good business; and, not being bothered with so 
many officers, she would be able to get along quite 

The King was very successful in his new pursuit, 
and although he did not this time have a line of 
followers connecting him with the palace, he fre- 
quently sent home messages which were of use 
and value to his nation. 

"And now," said the Attendant Sprite to the 
Sphinx, " I 'd like to know what 1 am to do for 
parents. Both the Pigwidgeon and the King have 
deserted me, and again I am left an orphan. I 
wish I could find a pair of permanent parents." 

"I feel very sorry for you," said the Sphinx, 
" and I would help you if I could. If you choose, 
I will be one of your parents." 

"Well," said the Attendant Sprite, "when I 
come to think of it, I don't believe I will bother 
myself to make any changes at present. Good- 
bye." And he quickly skipped out of sight. 





By Malcolm Douglas. 

A DULL, leaden sky. All day the snow-flakes 
have steadily fallen, and now, as night approaches, 
not a vestige of the frozen earth remains. Beppo 
walks wearily along, his beloved guitar held closely 
under his arm. He sees the lights lit in happy 
homes ; he sees the children, with their faces 
pressed against the panes, watching with delight 
the fall of the flakes, for to-morrow will be Christ- 
mas and the snow will aid Kriss Kringle in his 
visit ; and a sad smile lights up his dark face, for 
the snow that brings happiness to them brings him 
deepest sorrow. 

As the little wanderer strolls on, he thinks of 
that land of mellow sunshine far over the sea, and 
of the happy home he had before his parents died; 
and, in contrast to this, he thinks of the home he 
has now, and of the wicked padrone who took him 
from his cherished country. 

These last thoughts arouse him to a sense of 
business, and, clinking the few pennies in his 
pockets, he takes up his position at the entrance 
of a theater which is ablaze with light. Then, 
blowing his breath upon his stiff, cold fingers, he 
plays a few wild, sweet notes upon his instrument 
— a prelude to "Home, Sweet Home." He watches 
the gayly attired people pass into the warm build- 
ing, but none seem to notice the little figure shrink- 
ing in the shadow. None save the gruff, burly 
policeman who roughly grasps his shoulder and 
says : " Come, young un, move along now ! " 

And Beppo, utterly disheartened, moves on. It 
has been a poor day for business ; he does not 
dare to go home with the few pennies he has 
earned; and now the stern mandate of the officer 
has cut off his last chance of getting more. 

He pauses under a gas-lamp, and, by its flicker- 
ing rays, he counts his pennies over. Just ten — 
enough for coffee and rolls ; and he crosses over 
to a little restaurant, and is soon indulging in a bit 
of extravagance. Supper over, he plans where he 
shall sleep. 

He remembers a box filled with straw which he 
has seen in his wanderings. He wends his way 
toward it, and, when ten strikes from the tall 
church-tower near by, Beppo is calmly asleep, his 
guitar pressed tenderly upon his breast. 

• * * * * * 

Twelve o'clock. As the last stroke reels out upon 
the frosty air, Beppo awakes from a troubled dream. 

His sharp ear catches the sound of voices, and he- 
remains almost breathless. 

" How are you going to work the job?" says 
some one in a hoarse whisper. 

" It 's as easy as rolling off a log," replies his 
companion. " The girl leaves the kitchen-window 
unlatched, and we 're in the house as nice as you 
please. Have you brought all the tools?" 

'• All in this bag," rejoins the first, and Beppo, 
wide awake now, hears something jingle. 

" Then, ho for old Howland's silver !" chuckles 
the second, and the two move off. 

Beppo hears their footsteps die away. He 
comprehends it all, — that there is to be a robbery, 
— and wonders how he can prevent it. The name 
Howland he has heard before, and he knows that 
he may be the means of saving much. 

He arises from his cramped position, and, stretch- 
ing himself, reaches for his guitar. Then, shivering 
as the piercing winds strike through his tattered 
clothing, he glides swiftly down the street — on 
until the bright light of a police-station greets his 

In broken sentences, he tells his story to the 
sergeant in charge, and the latter at once sends 
two officers out to investigate the matter. 

Beppo knows that he has done his duty — he can 
do no more. Unnoticed, he steals out into the 
dark street. Two or three blocks passed, a strange 
feeling comes over him. The snow falls so fast 
that he can scarcely see before him. Sick and 
dizzy, he gropes his way up the steps of a private 
residence and falls fainting in the door-way. 
* * * * * * 

The Herald, two days after, contained among 
its advertisements the following : 

JL tion that led to the frustration of designs upon a Fifth Avenue 

house, will send his address to A H , Herald office, he will 

hear of something to his advantage. 

And the following in its local department: 


Yesterday morning, while Mr. John Smith, of Blank street, was 
searching for his paper in the door-way, his attention was drawn to a 
little figure half-covered by the snow. A guitar was tightly clasped 
in his hands. A doctor was immediately summoned and stimulants 
were given, but to no avail. The poor little fellow was quite dead. 
He was subsequently identified as Beppo, who, with his instrument, 
was quite well known among people of the lower district. 




By Eleanor A. Hunter. 


I J A most couoAQE^GiiS Skipper 



JEJut^hhe Little Be/sr grq^lehIi;^ 
""^^giGBlAT Sear tig^gggg. 


I 29 

By J. T. Trowbridge. 

Chapter IV. 


it was nice ? " Rush said, 

but I could n't be- 

" Rush remarked, 

: ' Get up ! " — with 

a two-forty nag, 

not very stunning 

he '11 do till we can 

The Dushees moved into a smaller house on 
the Dempford side of the river, and on the first of 
April the Tinkhams took possession of their new 

Rush drove his mother and Letty over from the 
Tammoset station in Mr. Dushee's buggy, which 
the boys had about decided to purchase, together 
with the horse, harnesses, and a good business 
wagon — these being among the many things the 
owner would now have no use for, and which, he 
said, ought to go with the mill. 

"A pretty fair sort of a horse, 
as he drove out of the village. ' 
a flourish of the whip. " Not 
exactly — go 'long, will you ! — 
in the way of beauty, but 
afford a better. " 

"He looks well enough, I 'm sure," replied his 
mother. "And why should boys always wish to 
travel so fast ? I never expected we should be able 
to keep a horse at all ; and such a one as this, 
even, seems too much — too great a blessing ! " 

" Oh, he 's beautiful, if he is only ours ! " said 
Letty. " To think of keeping our own horse and 
carriage ! It 's like a dream." 

" I hope it wont all turn out to be a big April 
fool," said the mother, with a smile in which 
quivered a deep and tender emotion. " That 's 
what I am afraid of." 

The weather was fine ; nearly all the first birds 
had come ; there was a sweet scent of spring in the 
air. Letty, full of girlish hopes and gay spirits, 
was delighted with everything ; and it was easy 
to see that, under all her doubts and misgivings as 
to this important change in their lives, the widow 
felt a tranquil joy. 

Until that day, Rush had not seen the place 
since his first visit, and the others had not seen it 
at all. It now appeared to him even more attract- 
ive than before, and he experienced the anxious 
pleasure of watching their first impressions as they 
saw the lake, the river, the mill-roof appearing 
among the willows above the bank, and the old- 
fashioned house which was to be their future home. 

Letty was almost wild with enthusiasm, while 
in the mother's eyes glistened that happiness which 
is akin to tears. 

VOL. X. — 9. Copyright, 18 

" Did n't I tell you 

" Oh, yes ! " said Letty 
lieve it was half so nice as it is." 

" It is very charming, indeed," said the mother. 
" What a pretty little plateau the house stands on ! 
I did n't think I should live to enjoy a home sur- 
rounded only by the air and sunshine, with no near 
neighbors but the trees and birds." 

"There's Lute coming out to meet us," said 

The boys had arrived with the loads of goods 
earlier in the day, and had been busy putting 
things to rights and preparing for their mother, 
whom they wished to spare the trials of moving. 

Lute ran out, hatless, in his shirt-sleeves, his 
honest face beaming behind the spectacles which 
gave it an almost comically wise look, and stam- 
mered his joyful greeting. 

"Well, M-m-mother, this is j-j-jolly ! We 
did n't want you to come a minute before ; but 
now we 're about r-r-ready for you." 

He reached to lift her from the wagon, as ten- 
derly as if she had been a child, at the same time 
ordering Rush to " t-t-tumble out." But Rush 

" I want to drive her around the place first, and 
show her the mill and the river." 

"All right," said Lute. "That will give us a 
l-l-little more time." 

He ran in to give some finishing touches to his 
mother's room, which was the first part of the 
house the boys had meant to have comfortable, in 
order to make her arrival as pleasant a surprise as 

Rush drove around by the little barn, along the 
track toward the mill ; while Letty, who had leaped 
from the buggy, ran on before, light and happy as 
one of the newly arrived birds. 

Hens were squawking with lazy content in the 
warm sun beside the barn. A pullet was cackling 
excitedly within, — over a new-laid egg, Rush said, — 
and a fine red rooster, stepping aside from the 
track as they passed, crowed a shrill welcome — 
sounds full of pleasant rural suggestion to ears and 
hearts long shut up in city walls. 

Then came shouts of boyish laughter, as the 
two youngest, Rupert and Rodman, ran out of 
the upper story of the mill, along the level shed- 

roof, to meet the buggy bringing their mother. 
Rush turned out on the turf near the edge of the 

2, by J. T. Trowbridge. All rights reserved. 




bank, and stopped where they could look down on 
the mill and the river, while Letty skipped along 
the foot-plank to the seats in the branches of the 
great willow. 

" Oh, Mother, you must come here ! " she cried. 
" You never saw so lovely a spot ! " 

"Yes, yes, I see; it is all too lovely!" Mrs. 
Tinkham exclaimed, with a tremulous smile. 

" Here 's Mart," said Rush. " He and I can take 
you up and carry you right over there without the 
least trouble." 

"So you shall, some time," his mother replied. 
"I foresee that I am to spend many happy hours 
in that grand old tree over the stream. But not 
now ; I must go into the house, and see how things 
are getting on." 

" Yes, Mother," said Mart, coming to the side 
of the buggy, and looking up at her with an ex- 
pression which beautified his rather lank face and 
homely mouth. " I want you to come and look at 
your little nest. Drive around, Rocket ! " 

At the side door he took her in his arms, and, 
in spite of her protestations, — for, with the help of 
her crutches, or an arm to lean on, she could walk, 
— carried her through the kitchen and sitting-room 
(where things were still in a chaotic state) into a 
room beyond, where he set her down gently in her 
own easy-chair. 

She looked wonderingly about her. It was her 
own carpet on the floor, her own bed set up and 
freshly made, with the pictures on the walls and 
the vases on the mantel to which her eyes had long 
been accustomed. 

"There!" said Mart. " We want you to stay 
here, and try to make yourself contented, while 
we straighten out things in the other parts of the 
house. We are getting along finely with the 
woman we have hired, and we don't mean that 
you shall take a step." 

"Oh, this is too much!" said Mrs. Tinkham, 
seeing how hard the boys had tried to make her 
new home home-like to her at the start. " I think 
there never were such children as mine. " 

She had to cry a little, but soon dried her eyes 
in her quick, resolute way, and observed : 

"The poor old carpet was n't quite large 
enough, was it?" 

"All the better," said Lute, who peered in 
through his spectacles to enjoy her surprise. "For 
if it was, the r-r-room would be smaller." 

" I am so glad you are to have a good large 
room now, Mother!" Letty exclaimed. "We used 
to crowd you so in the other house ! " 

It was a happy thought to the widow that her 
daughter and five sons had always found her room 
so attractive ; and she now looked around with 
pleasant anticipations of the comfort the)' would 

all take together there on future evenings and 
Sunday afternoons. 

" I never had the sun in my windows so before," 
she said. "I am afraid, boys, you 've given me 
the best room in the house." 

"We mean to make it the best, as soon as 
we can afford it," said Mart. "We knew you 
would n't like this wall-paper very well; but I 
hope we can have the whole house repapered and 
painted in a year or two." 

" The figures are rather old-fashioned," said his 
mother ; " but old fashions are coming around 
to be new fashions now." 

"And it 's awfully ' tqny,' " said Rush, " to have 
your carpet ■ too small for your room, leaving a 
space a foot or so wide around by the wall ! " 

"And see," Letty laughed, gayly, " what small 
window-panes ! The Lummells, in their new 
Queen Anne cottage, have some just such little 
scrimped-up panes, and think they are elegant." 

" Children, we are in style, and it seems to me 
this place is going to be a little paradise ! I like 
it — I like it extremely! Did you bring in my 
crutches, Rocket ? " 

In spite of all opposition, she was presently on 
her feet, — or rather on her one good foot and a 
crutch, — stepping about the house, giving instruc- 
tions, and setting things in order with her own 

Chapter V. 


THE boys worked hard, delighted with the 
change, and inspired by youthful hope and joy. 

They had taken the contract to supply rocket- 
sticks, pin-wheels, and other wooden fixtures, for 
Cole & Company's fire-works, and orders for toys 
and dolls' carriages had been secured. 

The mill met their most sanguine expectations. 
Much of the old machinery proved to be good, 
and their ingenious heads and skillful hands found 
little difficulty in adjusting to it their own special 
improvements in tools and apparatus. The future 
seemed bright with the promise of abundant, 
happy, and prosperous employment. 

The simple water-power was a joy to their 
hearts. The tide set back twice a day, and ebbing 
again gave, as Mr. Dushee had said, about eight 
hours of good running power out of every twelve. 
The occurrence of this period varied day after day; 
but they could easily accommodate their work to 
it, for there would always be plenty of mere hand 
labor to do in the intervals of flood tide and still 

Two or three days after taking possession, while 
they were experimenting with the machinery, they 



received a call from Mr. Dushee. He came to in- 
quire whether they had concluded to buy the 
horse and wagons ; and the vast landscape of his 
countenance brightened when Mart said they 
would try to have the money ready for him the 
next day. 

"I see you are making improvements," he re- 
marked encouragingly, as he was about to go. 


"A few changes seem necessary," Mart replied. 

"One thing I am bound to have d-d-done," said 
Lute. " In place of these flash-boards, we are 
going to have a p-p-permanent gate." 

A cloud of slight embarrassment passed over the 
desert of a face. 

" I would n't be in a hurry about that; I advise 
ye to wait and see how the flash-boards work." 

"It isn't much trouble, I know," said Mart, 
" to go and put in the flash-boards when we want 

to start up the wheel ; but what 's the use even of 
that ? I think Lute is right." 

" I 've already got a plan of a gate that will take 
c-c-care of itself," said Lute. " To be hung by 
the top, so the tide running up will open it, and 
shut it r-r-running back." 

" I had thought of something like that myself," 
said the former owner. " But," he added, with 
the air of one giving 
disinterested advice, " I 
think you '11 find it for 
your advantage to stick 
to the flash-boards. Any- 
way, you 'd better wait 
awhile and see." 

The boys laughed at 
what the)' called his " old 
fogy notions " after he 
was gone ; and Lute de- 
clared that, as soon as 
he could get around to 
it, he would certainly 
have his g-g-gate. 

It was not long, how- 
ever, before they learned 
that Mr. Dushce's coun- 
sel was good. 

That afternoon, a 
stranger in a narrow- 
seated buggy drove up 
to the mill. Rush came 
out of the upper story 
to meet him. 

" I hear this property 
has lately changed 
hands," said the stran- 
ger, with an air of offi- 
cial authority. 

" Yes, sir," replied 

"Who are the pres- 
ent owners ? " 

" Well, it belongs to 
our family — the Tink- 
ham family." 

" Where is the Tink- 

ham family ? I mean, 

the head. I suppose there is a head somewhere." 

The man spoke rather insolently, Rush thought, 

so that he was tempted to make a laughing reply. 

" Yes, there are several heads; pretty good ones, 
too, some of us think. The property stands in my 
mother's name," he added, more soberly. " But 
my brothers have charge of the mill and the 
business. " 

" I want to see your brothers," said the man in 
the buggy. " Tell 'em I am a fish-officer. I 




come with authority from the fish commissioners, 
to give due notice of the law and its penalties re- 
garding obstructions in the way of migratory fish." 

Rush did not feel like making a merry reply to 
that. His heart sank a little, as he said : 

"That is something I don't think they know 
anything about." He thought of the dam. "They 
are in the shop. Will you come in and see about 
the obstructions ? " 

The man got out of his buggy, followed Rush 
into the mill, and there delivered his errand to the 
oldest son. 

Mart received it quietly, but Rush could see- 
that he was taken by surprise. 

" Is this a new thing ? " he asked. 

"Not at all; we have to attend to it every 
year," replied the officer. " The alewives will be 
running up the river in great numbers soon after 
the middle of the month, and they must have free 

Mart was silent a moment, only a reddish suf- 
fusion of his eyes betraying to Rush that the dep- 
uty's words had struck deep. 

" Come out here and see my brother," he said. 

It was high water, the ebb was just setting in, 
and Lute was on the platform over the dam, study- 
ing the probable working of his proposed tide-gate 
in some preliminary experiments with the flash- 

He was interrupted by the approach of his 
brothers with the stranger. 

" I guess we '11 give up the idea of agate for the 
present," said Mart, with his usual drawl. " This 
man has an argument against it. Fire it off for 
my brother's benefit, will you, Mr. Fish-officer? " 

The deputy complied with cheerful glibness. 
Lute listened intently, having set the flash-boards 
to keep back the water. Then, having glanced at 
Mart's serious face, he turned his gleaming specta- 
cles up at the officer. 

" If this had happened three days ago," he 
remarked, " I should have said it was an April- 
f-f-fool ! " 

" Well, it is no April-fool," replied the deputy. 
" So now what do you say? " 

" I say Mr. Dushec is a f-f-fraud ! " 

" He never said a word to one of us about a 
fish-way," Rush spoke up in great excitement 

" But he knows the need of it well enough, often 
as he has been warned," said the deputy. 

" What has he done to keep within the law ? " 
Mart inquired. 

" There was only one thing to do. He has 
pulled out his flash-boards and let the fish run." 

"But that destroys the water-power ! " 


" How 1-1-long ? " stammered Lute. 

' ' The law requires that streams shall be free for 
fish to run from the middle of April to the middle 
of June. The alewives go up into the pond to 
spawn. After that they descend the river again, 
and return to the sea." 

Mart had by this time recovered from the con- 
sternation into which he had at first been thrown, 
and his ingenious mind was already seeing its way 
out of the difficulty. 

" I should greatly enjoy cracking the Dushee 
cocoa-nut," he drawled, alluding in that irreverent 
way to the former owner's head-piece, " for not 
telling us about this fish business. But it is n't 
such a terrible matter. Lute. The fish go up with 
the tide, I believe ? " 

" The great mass of them," replied the deputy. 
"But a good many stragglers get caught by the 
ebb, and have to work their way against it." 

" These flash-boards float with the flood-tide," 
said Mart, "and of course they'll let the alewives 
run up with it. I guess they wont be seriously 
hindered, any of 'em. And by the time they have 
spawned, and are all ready to run down again, 
we '11 " 

" We 'II have a f-f-fish-way constructed ! " broke 
in Lute, with a rapid stammer. " I 've got it 
already p-p-planned." 

" That will be the best way," remarked the 
deputy. "In case of an impassable dam, the law 
requires the owner to build such a fish-way as the 
commissioners approve ; or it requires them to 
build it, and charge the cost to him. Dushee 
thought it unnecessary, and preferred to keep his 
flash-boards open." 

He added that he did not wish to be unduly 
strict with an)' man who was willing to comply 
with the law ; having thus performed his duty, he 
parted on very civil terms with the Tinkham boys, 
and rode away. 

" We can get over this well enough," said Mart. 
" But, I tell ye, I was in a pouring sweat for about 
a minute. I believe I lost about a pound of flesh." 

"I wonder if there is anything else Dushee 
has kept back," said Rush, still excited. " I 'm 
afraid we don't yet know all his reasons for being 
so anxious to sell." 

"I remember, Father used to say, 'A man 
always has two motives for every action, his real 
motive and his pretended motive,' " drawled Mart. 
" I 'm afraid Dushee is the kind of man he meant. 
What I 'm still more afraid of is, that we shan't 
be glad when we find all his reasons out." 

"Anyhow," said Lute, " I 'm going to have my 
tide-gate all the same, soon as we 've b-b-built the 

As the dam was only two feet high, the fish- 
way — consisting of open water-boxes placed one 




above the other, so connected that the alewives 
could easily work their way up or down through 
them — seemed to be a simple and inexpensive 

So did the tide-gate. But there was a stronger 
argument against that than any the boys dreamed 
of yet. 

Chapter VI. 


RUSH had been too busy to go off the place 
since the day of the moving. But, after supper 
that evening, he and Letty and the two younger 
boys took a walk. 

They strolled up the river as far as the bridge, 
where they chanced to meet the elder Dushee 
returning home from Tammoset. 

Rush was inwardly boiling with indignation at 
the man's extraordinary economy of the truth 
regarding the alewife business, in all his talks with 
the purchasers of the mill. But he controlled 
himself, and said quietly, in reply to Dushee's 
observation that 't was a pooty evenin' to be takin' 
a ramble : 

"You never mentioned to any of us that there 
might be some trouble about the alewives passing 
the dam." 

"Trouble? trouble?" said Mr. Dushee, blandly. 
" Why, no ! for I never believed there 'd be any 

" You did n't know the fish commissioners 
would be after us, I suppose?" 

Rush spoke with biting sarcasm. But the large, 
bland countenance remained undisturbed. 

" Oh ! there 's been an officer around, has they ? 
I knew 't was about time. Comes every year. It 's 
his business. But that 's all 't amounts to." 

"You have paid no attention to his warning?" 
said Rush. 

" Skurcely," Dushee replied in a confidential 
way. "I'd set my youngsters to watch for a few 
days when the fish was runnin' the thickest, and 
if they see the fish-officer a-comin', I 'd jest pull 
up my flash-boards, and mabby leave 'em up till 
they see him go 'long back down the river. That 
is, if I happened to be runnin' the wheel. But 
gener'ly I could git along without it for a part of 
the time ; then I 'd let the fish run. The dam 
never was no hcndrance to the alewives, and the 
officer knew it," the former owner added, seeing a 
wrathful light in the boy's eyes. "There never 
was no trouble, and there never need to be none." 

" It seems to me, you might at least have told 
us of anything of the kind that might turn up," 
Rush replied, in a rather choked voice ; for it was 

all he could do to keep his anger from breaking 

"I s'pose I might," Dushee replied, cheerfully. 
" But I did n't think it necessary. There 's a good 
many little things about the mill you '11 have to 
find out for yourselves. If I can be of service to 
ye, le' me know." 

Then, as Rush was walking silently away, the 
large-featured man repeated, with friendly persist- 
ence, " It's a re'l pooty kind of an evenin' to be 
takin' a ramble," and went smiling home. 

The snow had vanished from the hill-sides, and 
the ice from the lake. It was a still evening, and 
the glassy water reflected the shores, the distant 
orchards and groves, and the rosy hues of the 
western sky. 

The boys ran on toward the outlet, while Letty 
sauntered slowly, waiting for Rush. 

" Oh, can't we have a boat-ride? " she called to 
him, looking across the river, and seeing a skiff 
hauled up on the opposite bank. 

"That 's the first boat I 've seen ; I did n't know 
there was one on the river," said Rush. "Wait 
here, and I '11 try to get it." 

He hurried back to the bridge, crossed over to 
a farm-house on the other shore, and was soon seen 
running down to the water's edge with a pair of 

" Go on up farther," he shouted, "and I '11 come 
over and take you all aboard." 

The current was running out, and he had to 
keep close by the bank and pull hard until he had 
succeeded in rowing the skiff up into still water. 
Then, making a broad circuit above the outlet, 
leaving behind him lovely ripples which spread far 
away over the pink-tinted pond, he crossed to a 
pebbly beach, where Letty was waiting with the 

Eager for adventure, they scrambled aboard, 
and Rush pushed off again. 

" This is better than the boat-rides we used to 
have around the edge of the dirty old harbor," 
said Rupert. 

"Oh, it is heavenly!" said Letty, who some- 
times indulged in an almost too enthusiastic way 
of expressing herself. " Why is n't the water cov- 
ered with boats? I should think it would be." 

" I suppose it is too early in the season for them 
yet," replied Rush. " Mr. Rumney said he had 
only just got his into the water. That accounts 
for its leaking so. Look out for your feet, boys ! " 

" Let us row awhile, Rush," said Rupert, as they 
glided out toward the center of the lake, which 
appeared like a vast gulf of infinite depth illu- 
mined by soft and delicate hues, until broken by 
prow and oars. 

Rush indulged them ; they took each an oar, 




while he assumed the place in the stern and 
steered, with a shingle for a rudder. Letty leaned 
over the bow, enjoying the lovely views. 

" We '11 take Mother out here, when the weather 
gets a little warmer," said Rush. " I promised 
myself that, the first day I saw the lake. Wont 
she enjoy it ! " 

" I wish she was with us now ! " exclaimed 
Letty. " It is too much for us alone ! " 

" We can row back and get her," said Rodman. 
" Can't we, Rupe ? " 

"Oh, yes — it will be fine! " said Rupe. 

It was not because the young Tinkhams were so 
much better bred or kinder-hearted than many 
children, nor yet because their mother's crippled 
condition had called out their gentlest feelings 
toward her, but rather, I suppose, because she 
made herself so sympathetic and delightful a com- 
panion to them, that they constantly thought of 
her in this way. 

But now all at once Rush had something else to 
attract his attention. 

" Hello ! there 's that odd-looking — summer- 
house, Dick Dushee called it." 

"What! that building on the shore?" said 
Letty. " Nobody would ever think of making 
such a summer-house as that ! " 

" And only an idiot or a knave would call it 
one ! " Rush exclaimed, flushing very red in the 
evening light. " Hold your oar, Rod ! We '11 
run over and look at it." 

Steering with his shingle, he headed the skiff 
toward the Tammoset shore and Dick Dushee's 
astonishing summer-house. 

" It 's built on piles over the water," said 
Rupert. "And what 's that before it?" 

" A float," said Rush. " It 's easy enough to 
see what the building is, and the rogue must have 
known ! "-' 

He was not long in surmising a reason for Dick's 
seemingly uncalled-for prevarication. What he 
had learned that afternoon made him suspicious 
of the Dushees. 

" That 's Dick Dushee there, with another boy, 
on the float," said Rupe. 

" Pull away ! I want to catch him before he gets 
off," said Rush, lowering his voice. 

" What is the building — if you know ? " Letty 
asked, with excited curiosity. 

" Nothing anybody need to lie about," Rush 
muttered, still with his angry flush on. "I '11 tell 
you by and by. Dick ! " he called, "see here a 

Dick was stepping up from the float into a large 
open door-way in the barn-like end of the building, 
when, hearing the summons, he reluctantly faced 

" This is your summer-house, is it ? " said Rush, 

" I knew 't was some sort of a house to have fun 
in — in summer," said Dick, with an ignoble grin, 
visible in the twilight. "I 've found out what it is, 
now." • 

" So have I, without any help from you," said 
Rush. " And, I 'm sorry to say, we 're finding 
out other things that don't reflect much credit on 
those who left us to discover them for ourselves." 

" I don't know what you mean," said Dick. 

Rush was flaming up for a fierce reply, when 
Letty stopped him. 

" Don't have any words with him, Rocket ! " 

" Well, then, I wont. Not now. Hold on here 
a minute, boys ! " 

To satisfy himself with regard to the character 
and use of the ugly structure, he leaped to the 
float, mounted the steps, and entered the great 
door-way. In a little while he came out again, 
with a troubled but resolute look. 

" How long has this been building?" he asked 
of Dick's companion on the float. 

" Ever since last winter," was the reply. " They 
drove the piles through holes in the ice." 

" Did you know then what it was for ? " 

"I guess so ! Everybody knew. Anyhow, it had 
been talked of enough." 

Rush gave Dick Dushee an annihilating look, 
but said nothing as he stepped back into the boat. 

"Why, what is it troubles you so?" Letty 
asked, as they pushed off. "That boy told us 
what the house was for, when you were inside ; 
but Rupert had already guessed." 

" I should think anybody could guess ! " said 

Rush declined to talk upon the subject, as they 
returned along the shore to the river. After land- 
ing on Mr. Rumney's bank, he told Letty and the 
boys to walk along to the bridge, while he re- 
turned the oars. 

Having thanked the farmer for them, he said : 

"Are there many boats owned here on the 
river? " 

The farmer, standing in his open shed, filling 
his pipe, answered, good-naturedly: 

" Wall, consider'ble many; more 'n the' use' to 
be, 'miff sight." 

"And on the lake?" queried Rush. 

" Wall, a consider'ble many on the lake. There 's 
been a kin' of a boom in the boatin' interest 

" How so ?" 

" Wall," replied Mr. Rumney, striking a match 
on his trousers, ' ' for years there was no boatin' here, 
to speak on. But the notion on 't has broke out 
in a crop o' boys growin' up — a perfect epidemic. 


l 6b 

'Specially sense the Argue-not Club was started last 
summer, though why they call it the Argue-not 
beats me, for I never seen anything else there was 
so much arguin' about. " 

The smile that broadened the good-natured face 
betrayed some consciousness of a joke. Rush, 
however, took the matter with intense seriousness. 

" This new building over here, on the shore of 
the pond, is the Argonaut Club's boat-house ? " 

Mr. Rumney nodded as he puffed at his pipe. 

Rush then said, trying to suppress a tremor in 
his voice : 

" Has there been much trouble — about — boats 
passing — Mr. Dushee's dam?" 

" Wall," said the farmer, smiling again, " since 
you ask me a candid question, I s'pose I must 
make a candid reply. There 's been some trouble. 
I may say perty consider'ble trouble. They say 
the dam has got to go. Your folks '11 have to 
know it, and ye may as well know it fust as last." 

Rush constrained himself to say calmly : 

"Seems to me we ought to have known it a 
little sooner." 

" 'T would have been for your interest, no 
doubt," the farmer replied ; adding, with a smile 
of the broadest humor: " If a man 's going to put 
on a stockin', and there 's a hornet's nest in it, 

he 'd nat'rally ruther like to know it 'forehand — 
leastways, 'fore he puts his foot in too fur ! " 

" Naturally," said Rush. "It was the hornet's 
nest, as you call it, that made Dushee so anxious 
to sell ? " 

"Should n't wonder!" Mr. Rumney gave a 
chuckle, which had a disagreeable sound to the 
boy's ears. " Anyhow, he never said nothin' about 
sellin 'till the Argue-nots argued him into it." 

" My brothers came and talked with you before 
buying," said Rush. "Why did n't you tell 
them ? " 

" Wall, 't wan't my business. Dushee he come 
with 'em. Neighbors so, I did n' like to interfere 
and spile his trade." 

In saying this, the worthy man appeared wholly 
unconscious of having acted in any but a fair and 
honorable way. 

Something swelled alarmingly in Rush's throat, 
but he swallowed hard at it, and finally managed 
to say, " Thank you, Mr. Rumney." 

He turned to go, paused, turned back, and hesi- 
tated a moment, as if struggling against a tumult- 
uous inward pressure, an impulse -to free his mind 
of some volcanic stuff. But he merely added : 

" Much obliged to you for the boat," and 
walked stiffly away. 

Together with the Doings and Diver- 
sions of Master Rauf Bulney and 
Mistress Margery Carew. 

By E. S. Brooks. 

How Rauf Bulney spoiled his Crimson Cloak. 

It was a breezy, sunshiny day in the early English spring — the 13th of 
March, 1520. The hills and valleys of Buckinghamshire lay bleak and bare, 
with but scant signs of the verdure imprisoned beneath. The ancestral oaks 
that studded the lawn and bordered the roadway before the Hall swayed and 
shivered in the wind that swept the Chiltern Hills and rocked the oaks and 
beeches of the Aylesbury woods. With jacket carelessly open and doublet 
disarranged, rode young Rauf Bulney across the roadway. His face was all 




aglow from the exercise that had followed his en- 
deavors to teach his fractious hobby, Roland, to leap 
the bars, while a reckless enjoyment of the March 
breezes made him careless alike of a possible throat- 
distemper and of his customary trim appearance. 

Roland had shown so determined a disposition 
to shirk his duty and refuse the leap, and had 
arched his shapely neck so repeatedly in protest 
before the bars, that Rauf had satisfied himself 
with two or three successes, and now, holding on 
his wrist the cleanly made little " lanard," or fal- 
con, that his uncle had recently given him, was on 
his way to test its merits. Just as he dashed across 
the roadway a rider, booted and spurred, passed 
him at full speed, his black horse flecked with foam, 
while on breast and back shone out in crimson and 
gold the well-known badge of his Grace the Cardinal. 

A courier from Hampton Court, though no 
infrequent visitor at Verney Hall, was still ever 
an object of interest ; and Rauf, weighing in his 
mind the opposing attractions of courier and 
falcon, decided for the courier and turned his 
steps toward the Hall. At the foot of the terrace 
stood Dick Ricroft, the groom of the stables, hold- 
ing the courier's impatient steed. 

Rauf wavered — the horse for the moment eclipsed 
the courier. 

"You beauty !" he said, admiringly. " Let me 
try a turn with him, Dick ? " 

"The saints forbid!" interposed the horrified 
Dick. " Ride one of the lord legate's horses, 
Master Rauf! 'T would be as much as all our 
heads are worth, and I 've no mind to lose mine 
yet. Besides," he added, " the courserman rides 
on to Sir John Hampden's on the hill, as soon as 
he has delivered his 
message to Sir Rauf." 

"What! Hampden 
Manor, too ? Why, 

this must be some special mission. What 's afoot, 
Dick?" questioned the boy. 

" Ah, you must needs find that out for yourself," 
replied the cautious Dick. " 'T is something touch- 
ing the King's Grace and a journey to France." 

" To France? Oh, glory! " and the impetuous 
youth, aflame with a new excitement, bounded up 
the terrace and dashed into the great wainscoted 
hall, where, at the middle table, sat the Cardinal's 
courserman — a barley loaf and a dish of "war- 
dens," or baked pears, before him, his face half- 
buried in the great pot of ale with which he was 
washing down his hasty lunch. 

" Well, how now, how now, young hot-head ? " 
came the deep voice of the boy's uncle, and, check- 
ing his impatience, Rauf walked slowly up to 
where, near the dais, stood his uncle, Sir Rauf 
Verney, papers in hand and a perplexed expression 
on his face. 

"What 's astir, sir?" asked young Rauf, with 
the privilege of a favorite, as he leaned against the 
dais and glanced into his uncle's face. 

"Bide a bit, Sir Malapert," said his uncle be- 
neath his voice, adding, as the courier rose from 
the long table and wiped the ale from his heavy 
mustache: " Art refreshed, good Master Yeoman?" 

" Fully, thanks to your worship," was the reply. 
" I must now hasten on to Hampden Manor." 

" Say to your master, the Lord Cardinal," said 
Sir Rauf, " that 

the commands of 
the King's High- 
ness shall have 
my proper obedi- 
ence; "and, court- 





cously conducted to the door and down the 
terrace, the courserman sprang to his sad- 
dle, doffed his bonnet in adieu, and the black 
horse sped down the roadway like an arrow. 

" Well, Anne?" was all that Sir Rauf said, as 
he came back and looked to his wife for counsel. 

'•' 'T is the King's command and the Cardinal's 
wish. I suppose it must be done," said Lady Anne 
Verney, smoothing the folds of her satin kirtle. 

' 'T will cost a pretty peck of angels," said Sir 
Rauf, somewhat ruefully, as he stroked his long 
brown beard. 

" But the honor of England and the Verneys, 
Sir Rauf! " interposed the Lady Anne. 

"Yes, yes, I know," said her husband; " needs 
must when the King wills. But as to my following," 
he added, musingly; " 'ten persons well and con- 
veniently appareled and horsed'" — then, sud- 
denly, "Rauf, would'st like to go to France?" 

Respectful silence in the presence of one's elders 
was enforced by something more than words in 
those early days, and Rauf, though inwardly chaf- 
ing at being so long kept in the dark, dared not 
ask for information. So, when his uncle's quick 
question came, the boy as quickly answered : " To 
France? Oh, Uncle! When?" 

" That means yes, I suppose. Here, my boy, 
make test of Master Bolton's teaching on this 
paper," and he handed Rauf a billet on which ran 
the address: "To our trusty and •well-beloved Sir 
Rauf Verney, Knight." 

Thanks to the careful tuition of Master Bolton, 
the chaplain at the Hall and a well-furnished 
scholar from the Oxford schools, Rauf could at 
least spell out enough of the billet to understand 
that it was a summons from the Cardinal Wolscy, 
Lord Chancellor of England, through the hand of 

Thomas Ru- 
thal, Bishop of 
Durham, and 
Secretary of 
State, com- 
manding "Sir 
Rauf Verney to 
await upon the 
King's Highness until 
a following of ten able and seemly persons, well and 
conveniently appareled and horsed ; the same Sir 
Rauf Verney to appear, as to his degree and honor 
belongeth, at the camp in the marches of Calais, 
between Guisnes and Arde, in the month of May, 
and at the time of meeting between the King's Grace 
and the French King." 

All the boyish curiosity, the love of excitement, 
and the delights of anticipation that lived in the 
heart of our young English Rauf of three and a 
half centuries ago, even as in the equally impetu- 
ous natures of our English and American boys of 
to-day, were stirred to their depths as he took in 
the meaning of the royal summons, and he turned 
a joyously expectant face to his uncle. 

" Yes, yes," responded Sir Rauf Verney, with a 
smile, to his nephew's unasked question. " 'T is 
a royal command and admits of no refusal. And 
you, Rauf Bulney, page, shall go ' well and con- 
veniently appareled ' as squire to the body in the 
following of Sir Rauf Verney, Knight." 

"But just where are Guisnes and Arde, Uncle ? " 
queried the boy. 

" Tut, tut, lad; shall we jog your truant mem- 
ory or Master Bolton's lagging work?" said the 
knight. " They lie, both, in the marches of 
Calais, in the valleys between our English town of 
Calais and the glorious field of Agincourt. This 
Guisnes is a town and castle in English territory, 
and Arde is a town and castle in French territory. 
They stand scarce two leagues removed from each 




other. Though how these castles will serve for 
convenient and proper lodgings for the Kings' 
Highnesses passes my fathoming. I mind me that 
on my last return from Flanders, now nigh two 
years since, I went with my Lord Fitzwater over 
the castle of Guisnes, and found it wretched 
enough — its moat dry and weedy, its battlements 
dismantled, its keep ruinous and crumbling. And 
as for the French castle, they made equal poor 
report — the town long since in ruins, the castle 
desolate and impaired, its fosse choked and useless, 
its donjon untoppcd, its walls torn with breaches." 

"A sorry place for a royal interview," said Lady 
Anne; ''but will not due care be taken to make 
them presentable ? " 

" Trust the Lord Cardinal for that," replied Sir 
Rauf. " Where so lavish a hand commands, small 
doubt is there as to great results. His Grace's 
courserman tells me that nigh twelve hundred 
workmen have been dispatched to Sir John Petchie, 
deputy of Calais, under orders to Lord Worcester, 
the commissioners, and the chief artificer." 

"But what is it all for, Uncle — this interview 
between our King's Highness and the King of 
France ? " asked young Rauf, who with ready ears 
had drunk in all his uncle's words. Ignoring Sir 
Rauf Verney's long explanation, half-politics, half- 
rumor, and all glorification of his liege and King 
such as he, born courtier, gallant soldier, and true 
Englishman, could not help giving, we may con- 
dense Rauf 's acquired information into a few words. 

Three young men, Henry Tudor, of England, 
aged twenty-eight, Francis d'Angouleme, of 
France, aged twenty-five, and Charles von Haps- 
burg, of Spain, aged nineteen, at that day swayed 
the destinies of the Christian world as monarchs 
of their respective countries. The imperial throne 
of Germany, then known as " the holy Roman 
Empire," becoming vacant in 15 19, by the death 
of the Emperor Maximilian, these three young 
kings, each with distinct but varying claims, as- 
serted their right of election to the vacant throne. 
On the 18th of June, 1 5 19, the electors of Germany 
rendered their final decision, and the younger 
of the three competitors, himself scarcely more 
than a boy in years, ascended the imperial throne 
as the Emperor Charles the Fifth — the mightiest 
monarch in Christendom. Henry of England, 
aware of the hopelessness of his claim, had already 
withdrawn from the contest : but his neighbor, 
Francis of France, brilliant, chivalric, handsome, 
and brave, but royally self-willed and impetuous, 
chafed under his defeat, and sought to weaken the 
power of his successful rival by an alliance between 
those two inveterate enemies, France and England. 
Thomas Wolsey, the son of the honest butcher of 
Ipswich, was now Cardinal Archbishop of York, 

legate of the Pope and Lord Chancellor of Eng- 
land, mighty in influence with his master the 
King, feared and flattered by all the courts of Eu- 
rope. He received with approval the propositions 
of Francis looking to an interview between the 
kings of Fiance and England, and, gaining the 
consent of Henry, sought to make this interview 
such an occasion of splendor and ceremonial as 
should delight their majesties and gratify his own 
love of display. By it, too, he hoped to increase 
his power over both courts and thus advance him- 
self toward the prize he coveted — the throne of 
the Pope, then the highest attainable dignity in 
the Church and the world. 

To make this royal interview, then, imposing in 
its ceremonial and splendid in the magnificence of 
its display, all England and all France labored and 
lavished, struggled and spent, managed and mort- 
gaged until, as one of the old chroniclers expresses 
it, "many lords bore to the meeting their mills, 
their forests, and their meadows on their backs." 

So much for the political history. To young 
Rauf Bulney, however, as he watched the prepara- 
tions that for two months kept the household at 
Verney Hall in continued bustle and action, the 
desires of kings and the ambition of cardinals 
went for but little. For him two realms were ex- 
cited, two nations disturbed, in order that a fresh 
and healthy young English boy of fifteen years, 
Rauf Bulney by name, might go to France in 
grand style and feast his eyes on glorious sights 
and royal profusion. 

At last the eventful time arrived, and in the 
early morning hours of Wednesday, the 16th of 
May, 1520, Sir Rauf Verney, with Master Rauf 
Bulney, his squire, Master Bolton, his chaplain, 
with color-man, archers, and bill-men, all picked 
from the very flower of the Verney tenantry, re- 
splendent in new liveries and displaying the Verney 
arms, bade good-bye to Lady Anne and the Hall, 
and, while roadways and forest were sweet with the 
breath of an English spring, the Verney following 
passed over the Chiltern Hills and through pleas- 
ant English meadows, to London first, and thence 
on to Dover. Not the least happy in that train 
was our friend Rauf, with a pardonable pride in 
the possession of three rich suits, and a happy 
consciousness that he looked quite as nicely as he 

At Dover, the straggling, stuffy little town of 
three hundred years ago, they found a great crowd 
of nobles and gentlemen, with their attendant 
trains ; while the valley of the Dour and the 
slopes of the chalk hills were white with tents and 
gay with streamers. Here, by the orders of the 
Lord Chief Marshal, the Earl of Essex, Sir Rauf 
Verney's following was joined to that of the Earl 



of Dorset. Sir Rauf himself was ordered to attend 
the Cardinal at the immediate reception of "the 
elect King of the Romans," otherwise the Emperor 
Charles the Fifth. For that enterprising young 
monarch, knowing full well the excessive courtesy 
and winning manners of the French King, sought 
to gain an advantage over his rival by a prior 
meeting with Henry of England. And so, hurry- 
ing from Barcelona with " only sixty ship and the 
Queen of Arragon," he met the English King at 
Dover before he had crossed to France. 

" Is our King's Grace, then, so wondrous great 
that this mighty Emperor fain must sue to him ? " 
Rauf asked his uncle when he heard the summons ; 
even his boyish enthusiasm for his King being un- 
able to grasp this wonder of the " Monarch of 
Christendom " doffing his bonnet to an island 

" Ah, my lad," replied his thoughtful uncle, 
" the King of the Romans sees far and shrewdly. 
An alliance between our King's Highness and him 
of France would threaten a mighty breach in King 
Charles's great dominions. Besides, our noble King 
of England, so my Lord Bishop of Worcester 
writes from Rome, ' is in great reputation in Chris- 
tendom,' and none know this better than the King 
Catholic. See now, my boy, what kingship does 
for a man. This young King Charles is scarce 
four years your elder; but, ah ! it 's an old, old 
head on green shoulders." 

So reasoned the cautious courtier, and so young 
Rauf accepted it; and, next morning, stood for 
hours at the door of his lodging to see this boy 
Emperor ride by with the English King on the 
way to the shrine of Thomas a Becket at Canter- 
bury — " the more to solempne the feast of Pente- 
cost," says the old chronicle. What Rauf really 
saw was a spare young man of medium height, 
with pale face and heavy under-jaw, with hooked 
nose and small, irregular teeth, plainly dressed, as 
compared to the magnificence of England's kingly 
King, by whose side he rode. But what Rauf 
could not see in that quiet face was the deeper 
purpose that, even then, told of great possibilities, 
as fitted the man who, for forty years thereafter, 
held an imperial scepter in an imperious grasp. 

Four days passed, and then, the Emperor's visit 
over, on the 31st of May the King of England, 
with his Queen and court, — above five thousand 
persons and nearly three thousand horses, — crossed 
from Dover to Calais. Standing in the bow of the 
stanch little " Maglory," one of Miles Gerard's 
stoutest hoys, — a small sloop-rigged vessel used 
for coasting work, — Rauf watched with interest 
the embarkation. The white chalk cliffs of Dover 
shone in the morning sun, the foam -capped waters 
of the Straits glistened and sparkled, while a host 

of small craft, bright with pennons and colors, 
scudded before the wind out from the shadow of 
Dover Castle, dipping and bobbing over the 
choppy waves toward the opposite port of Calais. 
In the midst of the fleet, gay with the fluttering 
decorations of St. George's cross, the Tudor 
dragon, and the Tudor rose, sailed the royal trans- 
port, the " Katherine Pleasance." 

Just as the " Maglory " rounded in behind the 
" Katherine," a sudden puff of wind and a choppy 
sea drove her hard against the stern of the royal 
vessel. There was a bump and a loud crash, and 
Rauf saw a young girl, whom he had already 
noticed as one of a merry group of ladies, topple 
over with the shock, and fall from the deck of the 
" Katherine " into the waters beneath. A shriek 
from the ladies on the King's vessel, a sudden wear- 
ing off on the part of the " Maglory," and then, 
impetuous as ever, as heedless of the consequences 
as of his satin doublet and his crimson cloak, his 
gold-embroidered hose, and his boots of Spanish 
leather, off from the bow of the "Maglory" 
jumped Master Rauf in aid of the drowning girl. 
A strong stroke and a ready eye, which much prac- 
tice in his home streams had given him, stood him 
well in need ; stout ropes and sturdy arms trailed 
over the lee of the " Katherine," and the girl and 
her rescuer were soon on deck, the one limp and 
faint from her peril, the other well enough in body 
but sorely damaged as to his gala dress. 

"A trim young gallant and a brave! Whom 
have we here as the savior of our fair but unsteady 
maiden ? " asked a deep, rich voice, and looking 
up, Rauf found himself in the midst of a gayly 
dressed group of lords and ladies, the foremost of 
whom was a man of tall and commanding appear- 
ance, well built, and stout almost to heaviness, with 
pleasant face, a fresh and ruddy countenance, and 
a short, golden beard and kindly smile, the very 
picture of health, imperiousness, and royal grace 
— Henry the Eighth, King of England. 

The courtier blood of the Verneys lent grace 
and homage to the obeisance with which Rauf 
accompanied his answer to the King's question. 

" I am Rauf Bulney, may it please your Grace ; 
nephew and squire of the body to Sir Rauf Verney, 
Knight, in my Lord of Dorset's train." 

"Ha! of our old friend Verney's stock," said 
the King. " And do you thus incontinently dive 
with equal speed to rescue the perishing, even be 
they not so fair to see as is our sweet maiden, Mis- 
tress Margery — eh, young sir? " 

Again bending low, Rauf replied to the royal 
banter : 

" My sponsors have taught me, my liege, that 
the true knight showeth due courtesy to all alike." 

" A right knightly answer, is it not, my lords?" 



said Henry, highly pleased. " And who, pray, 
after your good uncle and the Lady Anne, may 
your guiders be, my boy ? " 

" Master Bolton, an Oxford scholar, is our 
chaplain, your Grace." 

"Ha? himself a pupil of our worthy Dean Colet 
— rest his soul! One of the new learning, too. 
We have high hopes of the youth of this present 
England, whose sponsors and preceptors are 
such as yours. But, body of me ! " said the 
King, hastily, as his eye caught the 
little rills that coursed down 
Rauf 's shivering but respect- 
ful legs, in crimson and 
violet tides ; " here 
stand we chat- 
tering, and there 
stand you a-chat- 
tering, as well. 
Good Master 
Cary, take this 
young springald 
to our yeoman 
of the robes and 
see him suita- 
bly appareled. 
Thereafter will 
we request the 
Lord Cardinal, 
with due regard 
to my Lord of 
Dorset, and Sir 
Rauf, his uncle, 
to add him to 
the file of our 
special pages. 
He is a right- 
mannered and 
well-favored lad." 

Rauf was shrewd courtier enough to make no 
reply to this promise of advancement beyond the 
customary low bow, and he therefore kept quiet 
as to his extra suits of gay clothing. " He who 
would rise must know when to hold his tongue." 
his uncle had taught him ; and here seemed the 
opportunity to put this precept to the test. 

On deck once more, dressed in a rich suit of 
crimson and violet blazoned with the Tudor rose, 
Rauf received with boyish sheepishness, not unmixed 
with his native courtesy, the well-spoken thanks 
of Mistress Margery Carew — a trim and sprightly 
little lass of near his own age, whose blue velvet 
gown, with its lining of crimson tinsel, well set off 
her fair Saxon face. She was the little daughter 

of Sir Richard Carew, a knight of Surrey, placed 
by her father among Queen Katherine's gentle- 
women under the protection of Lady Gray. 

" And let me tell you, Master Page," said Lady 


Gray, as she warmly thanked Rauf for his aid, "a 
sorry loss of a sprightly lass would have fallen upon 
us had you not so quickly taken to the water." 

So, in exchange of pleasant words and compli- 
ments, of questions and explanations, the crossing 
to the French shore was quickly made, and all too 
soon, as it seemed to Rauf, the ramparts and 
towers of Calais lav abeam. 

(To be continued.) 




Words by Rev. Minot J. Savage. 


Music by Howard M. Dow. 


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r. In the old time, runs the sto - ry, There was once a won-drous night, When from out the un - seen 
2. Since that day the chil-dren's voi-ces Have caught up the glad re - frain ; And to-night the heart re - 




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glo - ry Burst a song of glad de - light; It was when the stars were gleam-ing, Shepherds 

joic - es That the hour comes round a - gain ; And the chil - dren are our an - gels, With one 











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watched their flocks, and then In their wak-ing, or their dreaming. An • gels sang, ' ' Good-will to men ! 
loud ac-claim they cry, Answ'ring back the glad e - van - gel's " Glo -ry be to God on high! 

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Mer-ry Christ - mas ! Mer-ry Christ -mas! Let us make the heav-ei 


ens ring 


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Mer-ry Christ - mas ! Mer-ry Christ -mas! Let us make the heav - ens ring! Ech-o 









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back the an - gels' mes - sage, With the songs the chil - d 

ren sing 

back the an - gels' mes - sage. With the songs the chil ■ dren sing 



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— 1 — 







By Louisa M. Alcott. 

"My Dear Granddaughters: Before you 
go to meet the little trials and temptations of the 
coming week, I want to make a proposition. I am 
old-fashioned, and I do not like to see young girls 
in so public a place as the cafe of a great fair. 
Your mothers differ with me, and I have no right 
to dissuade you. But I have asked leave to try 
and keep the young heads from being quite turned, 
and the young hearts from forgetting the sweet 
old virtues — modesty, obedience, and self-denial. 
So I write to say that I intend to give the set of 
pearls you all so much admire to the one who be- 

haves best during the week. Like the fairy god- 
mother in the story, I shall know what happens, 
and which of you deserves the reward. Laugh, if 
you will, but keep our little secret, and try to 
please Grandmamma." 

This was the letter read aloud by one of three 
young girls, who sat together in the pretty, old-time 
dresses they were to wear while serving as attend- 
ants in the refreshment saloon at the fair. A very 
select and fashionable fair, you may be sure, or 
Kitty, Kate, and Catherine St. John would not be 



allowed to play waiter-girls in these dainty costumes 
of muslin, silk, and lace. 

"That is just one of Grandma's queer ideas. I 
don't mind trying, but I know I shan't get the 
pearls, because I 'm always doing something 
dreadful," said Kitty, the merry member of the 
Kit Kat Club, as the three cousins were called. 

"I 'd do anything to get them, for they are per- 
fectly lovely, and just what I want," cried Kate, 
dropping the letter to give the kitten in her lap a 
joyful squeeze. 

"I suppose she will find out how we spend the 
gold ten-dollar pieces she gave us, if she is going 
to know everything we do ; so we must mind what 
we buy," added Catherine, with a frown, for she 
dearly loved to buy nice little things and enjoy 
them all by herself. 

"Let us see — 'modesty, obedience, and self- 
denial.' I think it wont be very hard to behave 
like angels for one week," said Kate, the oldest 
and prettiest of the three, looking again at the 
letter she had read aloud. 

"Obedience is always hard to me, and I never 
expect to be an angel," laughed Kitty, while her 
black eyes twinkled with mirth and mischief, 
as she threw down her knitting. 

" Self-denial sounds very nice, but I do hate 
to give up things I want, and that is just what 
it means," sighed Cathy, who seldom had a 
chance to try this wholesome virtue in her luxur- 
ious home. 

" People call me vain sometimes, because I 
don't pretend to think I 'm a fright, when I know 
I 'm not; so perhaps Grandma meant the 'mod- 
esty' for me," said Kate, glancing at the long 
mirror before her, which reflected a charming 
figure, all blue silk, lace ruffles, and coquettish 
knots of ribbon here and there. 

" Of course, you can't help knowing you are a 
beauty, with your blue eyes, yellow hair, and sweet 
complexion. I should be as vain as a peacock 
if I were half as pretty," answered Cathy, who 
mourned over her auburn locks and the five 
freckles on her rosy cheeks. But she had never 
looked better than now, in her pale green-and- 
white costume, with fan and mitts, and the objec- 
tionable hair hidden under a big cap, that added 
several years to her age — a thing one does not 
object to at sixteen. 

"Now, / don't worry about looks, and, as long 
as I have a good time, it does n't matter if I 
am as brown as a berry and have a turned-up 
nose," said brunette Kitty, settling the cherry 
bows on her flounced apron, and surveying with 
great satisfaction her red silk hose and buckled 

"Wont it be delicious to own a set of real 
VOL. X. — 10. 

pearls, — necklace, earrings, and cross, — all on 
black velvet in a red case, with a great gold C on 
the outside ! So glad our fathers were brothers 
and named us all for Grandma ; now the letter 
suits each of us. Young girls can wear pearls, 
you know. Wont the necklace look well on 
me ? " asked Kate, glancing again at the mirror, 
as if she already saw the new ornament on her 
white throat. 

"Lovely!" cried both the others, who heartily 
admired bonny Kate, and let her rule over them 
because she was a little older. "Don't tell any 
one about this trial of ours, nor what we do at 
the fair, and see if Grandma really does know," 
said Kitty, whose pranks always were found out 
in some mysterious manner. 

" She will — I know she will ! Grandma is a 
very wise old lady, and I do feel sometimes as 
if she really was a fairy godmother — she knows 
so well what we want, and do, and think about, 
without a word being said," added Cathy, in 
such an awe-stricken tone that the others laughed, 
and agreed that they must look well to their 
ways if they wanted the promised reward. 

The fair began next day, and a splendid open- 
ing it was, for neither time, taste, nor money had 
been spared to make the great hall an inviting 
place. The flower-table in the middle was a lovely 
bower of green, with singing-birds, little fountains, 
and the attendant young ladies dressed as roses of 
different sorts. At the art - table, maidens in 
mediaeval costumes made graceful pictures of 
themselves, and in the cafe old-fashioned Priscillas 
and neat-handed Phyllises tripped to and fro, with 
all the delicacies of the season on their silver sal- 
vers. Round the walls were the usual booths, full 
of gay trifles, and behind them sat the stately 
matrons who managed the affair, with their corps 
of smiling assistants, to beguile the money out of 
the full pockets of the visitors. The admission fee 
was so high that none but the well-to-do could 
enter, so no common folk mingled with the elegant 
crowd that soon filled the hall and went circling 
around the gay stalls with a soft rustle of silks, 
much nodding of plumed bonnets, and a lively 
rattling of coin, as people bought their last Christ- 
mas gifts at double the price asked for them in 
any shop. 

"Isn't it splendid?" whispered the Kit Kat 
Club, as they stood with their trays waiting for the 
first customers to appear. 

" I 'm sure I don't see what harm Grandma 
could find in this," said Kate, shaking out her 
skirts and smoothing the golden curls shining on 
her temples. 

" Nor I," cried Kitty, prancing a little to enjoy 
the glitter of the buckles in her smart shoes. 




"Nor I yet," echoed Cathy, as she looked from 
her cousins to the nine other girls who made up 
the twelve, and saw in the excited faces of all some- 
thing which dimly suggested to her more thought- 
ful mind what Grandma meant. 

Just then a party came under the flag-festooned 
arch, and all the young waiters flew to serve their 
guests, for now the fun began. 

Nothing remarkable happened that first day, and 
our three were too busy learning their duties and 
trying to do them well, for any thought of pearls 
or promises. But at night they confided to one 
another that they never were so tired in all their 
lives, for their feet ached, their heads were a jumble 
of orders, and sundry mistakes and breakages much 
disturbed their peace of mind. 

Kitty walked in her sleep that night, and waked 
her mother by rattling the candlestick, evidently 
under the impression that it was her tray. 

Kate kept calling out: " Two vanilla ices ! Cup 
of coffee ! Chicken salad for three ! " And Cathy 
got up with a headache, which inclined her to think, 
for a time at least, that Grandma might be right 
about young girls at fairs. 

But the pleasant bustle soon set spirits dancing 
again, and praises from various quarters reconciled 
them to the work, which was not half so much like 
play as they had supposed ; so the cousins strolled 
about arm in arm, enjoying themselves very much, 
till the hour for opening the cafe arrived. 

They all three made a discovery this day, and 
each in a different way learned the special tempta- 
tion and trial which this scene of novelty and ex- 
citement had for them. 

Kate saw many eyes follow her as she came and 
went, and soon forgot to blush when people turned 
to look, or whispered, "Is n't that a pretty one?" 
so audibly that she could not help hearing. She 
was a little shy at first, but soon learned to like it, 
to feel disappointed if no notice was taken of her, 
and often made errands about the hall, when off 
duty, that she might be seen. 

Kitty found it very hard to be at the beck and 
call of other people, for she loved her liberty and 
hated to be "ordered round," even by those she 
was bound to obey. Just now it was particularly 
hard, for, though the presiding ladies tried to be 
angelic, the unavoidable delays, disorders, and 
mishaps at such times worried them, and some 
were both dictatorial and impatient, forgetting that 
the little maids were not common Biddies, but 
young ladies, who resented the least disrespect. 

Cathy's trial was a constant desire to eat the 
good things she carried, for in a dainty way she 
was something of a glutton, and loved to feast on 
sweets, though frequent headaches was the penalty 
she paid. Such tempting bits of cake, half-eaten 

jellies, and untouched ices as she had to yield up 
to the colored women who washed the dishes and 
ate " de leavin's " with aggravating relish before 
her eyes ! These lost tidbits haunted her even 
when she took her own lunch, and to atone for the 
disappointment she ate so much that her compan- 
ions no longer wondered that she was as plump as 
a partridge. 

On the third day the novelty had worn off, and 
they all felt that they would like to sit down and 
rest. Kate was tired of tossing her curls and trying 
to look unconscious ; Kitty hated the sound of the 
little bells, and scowled every time she had to an- 
swer one; Cathy had a fit of dyspepsia, which 
spoilt all her pleasure, and each secretly wished 
the week was over. 

" Three more days of it! Do you think we shall 
hold out? " asked Kate, as they were preparing to 
go home after a very hard day, for the fair was a 
great success, and had been thronged from opening 
to close. 

" I wont give in as long as I have a foot to stand 
on, and Mrs. Somerset may glare at me as much as 
she likes when I smash the dishes," said Kitty, ex- 
ulting in her naughty little soul over one grand 
avalanche by which she had distinguished herself 
that evening. 

" I shall if I can, but I don't wont to see ice- 
cream nor smell coffee again for a year. How peo- 
ple can stuff as they do is a wonder to me," sighed 
Cathy, holding her hot head in her cold hands. 

" Do you suppose Grandma knows all we have 
been doing?" said Kitty, thinking of an imperti- 
nent reply she had made to the much-enduring 
Mrs. Somerset that day. 

" I hope not ! " ejaculated Cathy, remembering 
the salad she had gobbled behind a screen, and 
the macaroons now hidden in her pocket. 

" She is n't here, but perhaps some one is 
watching us for her. Would n't that be dread- 
ful ? " suggested Kate, devoutly hoping no one in 
the secret had seen her when she stood so long 
at the art-table, where the sun shone on her pretty 
hair, and Miss Wilde's ugly terra cotta costume set 
off her own delicate dress so well. 

" We 'd better be careful and not do anything 
very bad, for we don't seem to have a chance to do 
anything particularly good," said Kitty, resolving 
to smile when called, and to try and keep six orders 
in her head at once. 

" I don't believe we shall any of us get the 
pearls, and I dare say Grandma knew it. Fairs 
are stupid, and I never mean to tease to help with 
another," said Cathy, dismally, for dyspepsia 
dimmed even the prospect of unlimited dainties 
on the morrow, and did Grandmamma a good turn, 
as I dare say she expected it would. 



'• I shall keep on trying, for I do want them very 
much, and I know what I can do to earn them, but 
I wont tell," and Kate tucked away her curls as if 
done with vanity forever, for the dread of losing 
the pearls set her to thinking soberly. 

Next morning she appeared with only a glimpse 
of yellow ripples under the lace of her cap, kept in 
the cafe, and attended to her work like a well- 
trained waiter. The others observed it and laughed 
together, but secretly followed her good example 
in different ways — Kitty by being very docile, and 
Cathy by heroically lunching on bread and butter. 

to rest here awhile, and let Alice take your place, 
my dear ? " asked Miss Dutton as she sipped her 
tea, while Kate affably chatted with a bright little 
girl, who looked decidedly out of place behind the 
piles of knit shirts and Shaker socks. 

"Yes, indeed, if she likes. Take my cap and 
apron ; your dress is blue, so they match nicely. 
Our busy time is over, so you will get along without 
any trouble. I shall be glad to rest. " 

As she spoke, Kate stepped behind the table, and, 
when Alice was gone, sat contentedly down under a 
row of piece-bags, dusters, and bibs, well pleased to 


Kate felt better for the little effort, and when she 
was sent to carry a cup of tea to Miss Dutton, after 
the hurry was over, she skipped around the back 
way, and never looked to see if any one's eyes fol- 
lowed her admiringly. 

Miss Dutton was a little old maid, whose booth 
was near the cafe, in a quiet corner, because her 
useful articles did not make much show, though 
many were glad to buy them after wasting money 
on fancy things. 

" Here is a young friend of mine who is longing 
to stir about. You look very tired ; don't you want 

be obliging in such a convenient manner. Miss 
Dutton chatted about the fair in her pleasant way, 
till she was called off, when she left her money-box 
and booth in the girl's care till her return. 

An old lady came and bought many things, glad 
to find useful articles, and praised the pretty shop- 
woman for making change so well, saying to her 
companion as she went away : 

"A nice, well-bred girl, keeping modestly in her 
place. I do dislike to see young girls flaunting 
about in public." 

Kate smiled to herself, and was glad to be where 

i 4 8 



she was just then. But a few minutes later she 
longed to " flaunt about," for there was a sudden 
stir; some one said eagerly, "The English swells 
have come," and everybody turned to look at a 
party of ladies and gentlemen who were going the 
rounds, escorted by the managers of the fair. 

Kate stood up in a chair to watch the fine people, 
but without thinking of deserting her post till she 
saw them going into the cafe. 

" There ! I forgot that they were coming to-day, 
and now I shall not have the fun of waiting on 
them. It is too bad ! Alice has my place, and 

does n't know how to wait, and is n't half so " 

She did not finish the sentence aloud, for she was 
going to say, " pretty as I." "She ought to come 
back and let me go : 1 can't leave till she does. 
I depended on it. How provoking everything is ! " 
and in her vexation Kate pulled down a shower of 
little flannel petticoats upon her head. 

This had a soothing effect, for when she turned 
to put them up she saw a square hole cut in the 
cambric which parted this stall from the cafe, and, 
peeping in, she could see the British lions feed, 
while a well-dressed crowd looked on with the want 
of manners for which America is famous. 

" Well, this is some comfort," thought Kate, 
staring with all her eyes at the jolly, red-faced 
gentleman, who was ordering all sorts of odd 
things, and the stout lady in the plain dress, 
who ate with an appetite which did honor to the 
English aristocracy. 

" That is Lord and Lady Clanrobert, and the 
fine folks only the people in waiting, I suppose. 
Now, just see Kitty laugh ! 1 wonder what he 
said to her. And there is Alice, never doing a 
thing at her table, when it ought to be cleared 
at once. Cathy takes good care of my lady ; 
she knows where the nice things are, and how- 
to set them out. If only I were there, how I would 
sail about, and show them one pretty girl, at 

Kate was too much excited to be ashamed of 
that last speech, though made only to herself, for 
at that moment she saw Miss Dutton coming back, 
and hastened to hang up the little petticoats and 
resume her seat, trying to look as if nothing 
had happened. 

" Now, run if you like, my dear. I 'm sorry 
lo have kept you so long, for I suppose you want 
to see the grandees. Go, and tell Alice to come 
back, if you are rested." said the old lady, bustling 
in, with a sharp glance over her glasses. 

Kate never knew what put the idea into her 
head, but she followed a sudden impulse, and 
turned a selfish disappointment into a little pen- 
ance for her besetting sin. 

" No. thank vou : I will stay till she comes, and 

not spoil her fun. I 've had my share, and it 
wont hurt me to keep quiet a little longer," she 
said, quickly, and began to sort red mittens, to 
hide the color that suddenly came into her cheeks, 
as if all the forgotten blushes were returning at 

"Very well, dear; I am glad to keep such a 
clever helper," and Miss Dutton began to scribble 
in a little book, as if putting down her receipts. 

Presently the crowd came streaming out again, 
and, after making a few purchases, the English 
party left and peace was restored. Then Alice 
came flying up in great excitement. 

"Oh, it was such fun! The fine folks came 
to our tables and were so nice. My lady said, 
' Me dear,' to us, and the lord said he had never 
been so well served in his life, and he must fee 
the waiters ; and after they went out, one of the 
young men came back and gave us each one 
of these delicious bonbon boxes. Was n't it 
sweet of them ? " 

Kate bit her lips as she looked at the charming 
little casket, all blue satin, lace, looking-glass, and 
gold filigree on the outside, and full of the most 
delicate French confectionery; for it was just one 
of the things young girls delight in, and she 
found it hard not to say, " I ought to have it, 
for you took my place." 

But Alice looked so proud and pleased, and 
it was such a trifle, after all, she was ashamed 
to complain ; so she called up a smile, and said 
good-naturedly : 

" Yes, it is lovely, and will be just the thing to 
keep trinkets in when the candy is gone. These 
elegant boxes are what grown-up young ladies get 
at Christmas ; so you will feel quite grand when 
you show yours." 

She tried to look as usual, but Alice saw that 
something was amiss, and, suddenly thinking what 
it might be, exclaimed eagerly: "I truly did n't 
know they were coming when I took your place, 
and in the flurry I forgot to run to ask if you 
wanted to go back. Please take the box ; you 
would have had it but for me. Do — I shall feel 
so much better if you will, and forgive my 

Kate was naturally generous, and this apology 
made it all right, so her smile was genuine as she 
put the pretty toy away, saying heartily this time : 

" No, indeed ; you did the work, and shall keep 
the fee. I don't mind now, though I did want to 
see the fun, and felt cjoss for a minute. I don't 
wonder you forgot." 

" If you wont take the box, you must the 
candy. I don't care for it, and you shall go 
halves. There, please do, you dear, good-natured 
thing." cried Alice, emptying the bonbons into a 



pretty basket she had lately bought, and giving it 
to Kate with a kiss. 

This peace-offering was accepted with a good 
grace, and, when she had resumed her cap and 
apron, Kate departed, carrying with her something 
sweeter than the bonbons in her basket, for two 
pair of eyes followed her with an expression far 
more flattering than mere admiration, and she felt 
happier than if she had waited on a dozen lords 
and ladies. She said nothing to her cousins, and 
when they condoled with her on the loss she had 
sustained, she only smiled, and took a sugar-plum 
from her store, as if determined that no foolish re- 
gret should embitter her small sacrifice. 

Next day Cathy, in a most unexpected manner, 
found an opportunity for self-denial, and did not 
let it slip. She had lightened many a weary- mo- 
ment by planning what she should buy with her 
ten dollars. Among various desirable things at 
the fair was a certain green-and-white afghan, 
beautifully embroidered with rose-buds. It was 
just ten dollars, and after much hesitation she had 
decided to buy it, feeling sure Grandma would 
consider it a useful purchase. Cathy loved cozy 
warmth like a cat, and pleased herself by imagin- 
ing the delightful naps she would take under the 
pretty blanket, which so nicely matched the roses 
on her carpet and the chintz on the couch in her 
charming room at home. 

"I '11 have it, for green suits my complexion, as 
the milkmaid said, and I shall lie and read and 
rest for a week after all this trotting, so it will be 
nice to cover my tired feet. I '11 go and get it the 
minute I am off duty," she thought, as she sat 
waiting for customers during the dull part of the 
afternoon. Her chair was near the door of the 
temporary kitchen, and she could hear the colored 
women talk as they washed dishes at the table- 
nearest her. 

" I told Jinny to come 'fore dark, and git a good 
warmin' when she fetched the clean towels. Them 
pore childern is most perished these cold nights, 
and I aint been able to git no blankets yet. Rent 
had to be paid, or out we goes, and work is hard to 
find these times ; so I most give up when the chil- 
dern fell sick," said an anxious-looking woman, 
glancing from the bright scene before her to the 
wintry night coming on without. 

" 'Pears to me things aint give round even-like. 
Some of these ladies has heaps of blankets, I aint 
a doubt, laying idle, and it don't occur to 'em we 
might like a few. 1 would n't ask for red-and-blue 
ones, with 'mazin' fine flowers and things worked 
on 'em ; I 'd be mighty thankful for a pair of 
common ones for three or four dollars, or even a 
cheap comfortable. My old mammy is with me 
now, and suffers cruel with her bones, poor creeter, 

and I can't bear to take my cloak off her bed, so 
I 'm gittin' my death with this old dud of a 

The other woman coughed as she gave a pull to 
the poor covering over her thin shoulders, and cast 
an envious look at the fur cloaks hanging in the 
ladies' room. 

"I hope she wont steal any of them," thought 
Cathy, adding pitifully to herself, as she heard the 
cough and saw the tired faces, " I wonder they 
don't, poor things ! It must be dreadful to be cold 
all night. I'll ask Mamma to give them some 
blankets, for I know I shall think about the sick 
children and the old woman, in my own nice bed, 
if I don't do something." 

Here a Topsy-looking girl entered the kitchen, 
and went straight to the fire, putting up a pair of 
ragged boots to dry, and shivering till her teeth 
chattered, as she warmed her hands and rolled her 
big eyes about what must have seemed to her a 
paradise of good things. 

"Poor child! I don't suppose she ever saw so 
much cake in her life. She shall have some. The 
sick ones can eat oranges, I know, and I can buy 
them all without leaving my work. I '11 surprise 
her and make her laugh, if I can." 

Up got Cathy, and, going to the great refresh- 
ment-table, bought six fine oranges and a plateful 
of good, solid cakes. Armed with these letters of 
introduction, she appeared before the astonished 
Jinny, who stared at her as if she were a new sort 
of angel in cap and apron, instead of wings and 

" Will you have these, my dear? I heard your 
mother say the babies were sick, and I think you 
would like some of our goodies as well as they," 
she said, smiling, as she piled her gifts in Jinny's 
outstretched arms. 

" Bless your kind heart, miss, she aint no words 
to thank you," cried the mother, beaming with 
gratitude, while Jinny could only show every white 
tooth, as she laughed and bit into the first thing 
that came handy. " It 's like manny from the skies 
to her, pore Iamb ; she don't git good vittles often, 
and them babies will jest scream when they sees 
them splendid oranges." 

As Mrs. Johnson gave thanks, the other woman 
smiled also, and looked so glad at her neighbor's 
pleasure, that Cathy, having tasted the sweets of 
charity, felt a desire to do more, and. turning to 
Mrs. Smith, asked in a friendly tone: 

"What can I send to your old mother? It is 
Christmas time, and she ought not to be forgotten 
when there is such a plenty here." 

" A little mess of tea would be mighty welcome, 
honey. My old mammy lived in one of the fust 
families down South, and is used to genteel ways; 




so it comes hard on her now, for I can't give her 
no luxuries, and she 's ninety year old the twenty- 
fust of next Jenniwary," promptly responded Mrs. 
Smith, seeing that her hearer had a tender heart 
and a generous hand. 

" She shall have some tea, and anything else 
you think she would like. I '11 have a little basket 
made up for her, and tell her I wish her a merry 

Then, hearing several bells ring impatiently. 
Cathy hurried away, leaving behind her three grate- 
ful hearts, and Jinny speechless still with joy and 
cake. As she went to and fro, Cathy saw the dark 
faces always smiling at her, and every order she 
gave was attended to instantly by the willing hands 
of the two women, so that her work seemed light- 
ened wonderfully, and the distasteful task grew 

When the next pause came she found that 
she wanted to do more, for a little food was not 
much, and the cloak on old Mammy's bed haunted 
her. The rosy afghan lost its charm, for it was an 
unnecessary luxury, and four blankets might be 
got for less than that one small one cost. 

" 1 wonder what they would do if I should give 
them each five dollars. Grandma would like it. 
and I feel as if I should sleep warmer if I covered 
up those poor old bones and the sick babies," 
thought Cathy, whose love of creature comforts 
taught her to sympathize with the want of them. 
A sudden glow at her heart made her eyes fill, her 
hand go straight to her pocket, and her feet to the 
desk where the checks were handed in. 

" Please change this for two fives. Gold, if you 
have it — money looks more in pretty, bright pieces," 
she said, as the lady obeyed, wondering what the 
extravagant little girl was going to buy now. 

" Shall I ? " asked Cathy, as she walked away 
with two shining coins in her hand. Her eye went 
to the kitchen-door, out of which Jinny was just 
going, with a great basket of soiled towels in one 
hand and the precious bundle in the other, while 
her mother was saying, as she pulled the old cape 
closer : 

" Run along, chile, and don't forgit to lay the 
pieces of carpet on the bed, when you tucks up the 
babies. It 's awful cold, and I can't be home till 
twelve to see to 'em." 

That settled the question in Cathy's mind at 
once, and, wishing the fives were tens, she went to 
the door, held out a hand to either woman, saying 
sweetly: " This is for blankets. It is my own : 
please take it," and vanished before the astonished 
creatures could do more than take the welcome 
money and begin to pour out their thanks. 

Half an hour afterward she saw the little afghan 
going off on the arm of Miss Dutton, and smiled as 

she thought how deliciously warm her old down 
coverlet would feel when she remembered her in- 
vestment in blankets that day. 

Kitty's trial came on the last night of the fair, 
and seemed a very hard one at the time, though 
afterward she was ashamed to have felt it such an 
affliction. About nine o'clock her mother came to 
her, saying anxiously : 

"The carriage is here, and I want you to go 
right home. Freddy's cold is so bad I 'm afraid 
of croup. Nurse is away, and Mary Ann knows 
nothing about it. You do, and I can trust you to 
watch and send for me if he grows worse. I can 
not leave yet, for all the valuable things on my 
table must first be taken care of. Now go, like a 
good girl, and then I shall feel easy." 

"Oh, Mamma, how can I? We are to have 
a supper at eleven, and I know something nice is 
to happen — bouquets from the managers, because 
we have held out so well. Mary Ann will take 
care of Freddy, and we shall be home by twelve," 
cried Kitty, in dismay at losing all the fun. 

"Now, Kitty, don't be disobedient. I've no 
time to argue, and you know that dear little boy's 
life is of more importance than hundreds of suppers. 
Before midnight is the time to watch, and keep 
him warm, and give him his pellets regularly, 
so that he may not have another attack. I will 
make it up to you. dear, but I shall not have 
a moment's peace unless you go ; Mary Ann is so 
careless, and Freddy minds you so well. Here 
are your things. Help me through to-night, and 
I don't think I will ever undertake another fair, 
for I am tired to death." 

Kitty took off her little cap and put on her 
hood without a word, let her mother wrap her 
cloak around her and walk with her to the door 
of the hall, giving last directions about draughts, 
spongia, wet bandages, and hot bottles, till she 
was shut out in the cold with thanks and a kiss 
of maternal relief. She was so angry that she 
had not dared to speak, and nothing but her love 
for her little brother made it possible for her to 
vield without open rebellion. All the way home 
she fretted inwardly, and felt much ill-used ; but 
when Freddy held out his arms to her, begging 
her to " tuddle me, cause my torp is so bad," 
she put away her anger, and sang the restless 
child to sleep as patiently as if no disappoint- 
ment made her choke a bit now and then. 

When all was quiet and Mary Ann on guard, 
Kitty had time to think of her own trials, and 
kept herself awake imagining the pretty supper, 
the vote of thanks, and the merry breaking up in 
which she had no part. A clock striking ten 
reminded her to see if Freddy had taken his 
medicine, and, stealing into the nursery, she saw 



why her mother sent her home. Careless Mary 
Ann was sound asleep in the easy-chair, a door 
had swung open, and a draught blew over the 
bed where the child lay, with all the clothes 
kicked off in his restless sleep, and the pellets 
standing untaken on the table. 

" I don't wonder Mamma felt anxious, and it 's 
lucky I know what to do. Mary Ann, go to bed ; 
you are of no use. I have had experience in nurs- 
ing, and I will take care of Master Freddy." 

Kitty vented her vexation in a good shake of the 
girl's stout shoulders, and sent her off with an air 
of importance funny to see. Then she threw her- 
self into her task with all her heart, and made the 
baby so comfortable that he slept quietly, in spite 
of the cough, with his chubby hand in hers. Some- 
thing in the touch of the clinging fingers quieted 
all impatience, the sight of the peaceful face made 
her love her labor, and the thought that any care- 
lessness might bring pain or danger to the house- 
hold darling filled her heart with tender fears and 
a glad willingness to give up any pleasure for his 
sake. Sitting so, Kitty remembered Grandma's 
letter, and owned that she was right, for many 
things in the past week proved it, and Mamma 
herself felt that she should be at home. 

" I shall not get the pearls, for I have n't done 
anything good, unless I count this," said Kitty, 
kissing the little hand she held. " Grandma wont 
know it, and I did n't keep account of the silly 
things I have left undone. I wonder if MissDutton 
could have been watching us. She was every- 
where with her raffle-book, and smiled and nodded 
at us like a dear old mandarin every time we met." 

Kitty's mind would have been set at rest on that 
point if she could have seen Miss Dutton at that 
moment, for, after a chat with Mamma, the old lady 
had trotted off to her own table, and was making 
the following singular entry in her raffle-book : 

" C. No. 3. Ordered home; went without com- 
plaint ; great disappointment ; much improved in 
docility ; evidently tried hard all the week to obey. 
Good record." 

No one else saw that book but Grandmamma, and 
she read in it three neatly kept records of that 
week's success, for Miss Dutton had quick eyes, 
ears, feet, and wits, and did her work well, thanks 
to her peep-hole, and the careless tongues and 
artless faces of girls who tell secrets without know- 
ing it. 

On Christmas morning, each of the cousins 
looked anxiously among her many gifts for the red 
case with the golden C on it. None of them 
found it, but Kate discovered the necklace in a 
bonbon box far finer than the one she lost ; Cathy 
found the pretty afghan pinned together with the 
cross; and on a fresher nosegay than any the man- 
agers gave their little maids, Kitty saw the earrings 
shining like drops of frozen dew. A note went 
with each gift, all alike, and all read with much 
contentment by the happy girls, as they owned the 
justice of the divided reward : 

"My Dear: The trial has succeeded better 
than I thought, for each has done well; each de- 
serves a little prize, and each will, I think, take 
both pride and pleasure in her share of Grand- 
mamma's love and Grandmamma's pearls." 


Bv Kate Kellogg. 

ACROSS the blue sky together 

Raced three little clouds one day ; 

The Sun they had passed at noon-time, 
The west was a league away. 

Oh, he is so slow," they whispered, 

" So slow, and so far behind, 

We three can be first at sunset 
If only we have a mind." 

They laughed to themselves in triumph, 

They took hold of hands and flew ; 
But oh, what a sad disappointment 

They afterward found and knew ! 
For this they had quite forgotten, 

As they hurried along through the air: 
There never can be a sunset 

Till the sun himself is there ! 

152 FOR VERY LITTLE FOLK. [December, 


By Mabel Jones. 

Yes, the snow-birds had a Christ-mas-tree at our house last year — a 
real tree, just big e-nough for the dear lit-tle things. I '11 tell you about it. 

We were as hap-py as we could be a-round our own beau-ti-ful tree, 
when all at once Roy gave a shout, and point-ed to the win-dow. (Roy is 
my lit-tlest broth-er. He has love-ly brown hair, and it 's banged in front and 
hangs way down be-hind. Mam-ma says he is the pet of the house, or that 
Lulu and he are the pets of the house. For Lulu looks ver-y much like 
Roy, and has the same kind of love-ly hair, and it 's banged in front and 
long be-hind, just like Roy's. Only Lulu is old-er than Roy.) 

Well, when Roy point-ed to the win-dow that morn-ing, he called 
out: "See! See! they want a Kis-mas-tee, too!" And we all looked 
a-round, and — wdiat do you think ? There on the win-dow-sill were four 
love-ly lit-tle snow-birds, look-ing in at our tree ! And they would peck, 
peck, at the pane, as if they want-ed us to open the win-dow. 

" Let 'em in ! Let 'em in ! " shout-ed Lulu, and she ran to raise the 
win-dow. But the lit-tle birds were a-fraid of her, and flew a- way. 

But they did not fly ver-y far a-way — on-ly to a tree out in the yard. 
And we o-pened the win-dow and called, " Bird-ie! Bird-ie!" a-gainand a-gain, 
and tried ev-ery way we knew to get them to come in. But just then it 
be-gan to snow real hard, and the lit-tle birds flew down to a lit-tle, low 
ev-er-green, and a-way in-to the cen-ter of it, where the snow could n't fall 
on them. 

But the best thing is to come yet. Lulu thought of it. Just when 
we said the poor lit-tle birds would have a real dull Christ-mas-day, Lulu 
shout-ed out : " Oh, I know ! We '11 make them a Christ-mas-tree of their 
own, and take it out and give it to them there in the ev-er-green." 

And then Lulu (jot Mam-ma to cut off a lit-tle bouorh from our Christ- 
mas-tree, and she stood it up in a paper box, and packed the box all 
a-round with pret-ty blue pa-per, so that the bough would stand up straight 
all by itself. And then she hung the lit-tle tree all o-ver with bread-crumbs, 
and, the first thing we knew, there it was, a per-fect lit-tle Snow-birds' 
Christ-mas-tree ! 

Then Lulu and Roy put on their pret-ty, new red caps, and their warm 
coats, and they took that lit-tle Christ-mas-tree out in-to the yard, and up 
to the ev-er-green where the birds were, and they pushed the limbs a-way, 



and set the lit-tle box and the lit-tle tree in a cor-ner of the ev-er- 
green, where it stood up straight. And — if you '11 be-lieve it — those 
birds nev-er flew a-way at all, but looked just as if they ex-pect-ed it 
all a-long ! And Lulu and Roy went a few steps a-way, and turned a- 
round, and stood per- ^^- -r-^zr~~, — r-ip^^ fect-ly still, and in a 

min-ute all four ^^f - > of those lit-tle 


mas-tree, and were just as hap-py o-ver it as we were o-ver ours. Lulu 
and Roy stood out there in the snow and watched them ev-er so long. 
And we could see them from the win-dow, too. 

We hope the same lit-tle birds will come back this year, and if they do, 
we 're go-ing to give them an-oth-er Christ-mas-tree. Would n't you ? 






Oh, tell me, children who have seen 

The Christmas-tree in bloom, 
What is the very brightest thing 

That sparkles in the room ? 

The candles ? No. The tinsel ? No. 

The skates and shining toys? 
Not so, indeed ; nor yet the eyes 

Of happy girls and boys. 

It 's Christmas day itself, my dears ! 

It 's Christmas day alone — 
The brightest gift, the gladdest gift 

The world has ever known. 

It 's coming, my ruddy crowd — it 's coming! 
It 's sparkling in the air already and stirring in 
every heart. The dear Little School-ma'am is knit- 
ting the loveliest pair of striped mittens for the 
Deacon, and all the children of the Red School- 
house are playing and whispering and working 
like things possessed. There '11 be crumbs scat- 
tered on the snow for my birds soon, depend on 
it — and maybe Christmas plums and goodies. 

Oh ! that reminds me of something. 

indeed. Changed ! — well, I 'd like to know ! Why, 
I 'm told that a boy of this day, a real boy of the 
period, would consider himself a much-abused 
fellow if he did n't find on his Christmas-tree 
a ball, a six-bladed knife, a scientific top, a box 
of carpenter's tools, a printing-press, a jig-saw, 
a sled, a bicycle, ice-skates, roller-skates, a Punch- 
and-Judy show, a telephone, a steam-engine, a 
microscope, a steam-boat, a working train of cars, 
a box of parlor magic, a pistol, a performing 
acrobat, a real watch, a gold scarf-pin, gold 
cuff-buttons, a bound volume of St. NICHOLAS, 
and twenty or thirty other books, more or less, 
besides a pocket-book with gold money in it, 
and a pair of kid gloves. 

" I may have forgotten something," added the 
Deacon, wiping his brow, "but, so far as I can 
make out, that 's the proper thing for an average 
boy's Christmas, nowadays. 

"As for the girls," the good man went on, 
raising his voice, " as for the girls — as for " 

How she did it, I do not know ; but that wonder- 
ful Little School-ma'am actually stopped the pro- 


" Changed ! " exclaimed Deacon Green to the 
dear Little School-ma'am, a year ago come Christ- 
mas, " I should think they had changed. Why, 
many 's the time I 've heard my dear old father 
tell how, years ago, when he and Aunt Mary were 
children living on their father's farm in old Eng- 
land, the least little present used to delight them. 

"They were well-to-do people, too, the Greens 
were ; but to find one book or a ball or a 
shepherd's pipe in his Christmas stocking would 
make Father perfectly happy when he was a boy ; 
and his sister thought a box of sugar-plums, or a 
new doll, or any one pretty gimcrack, was a joy 

ceedings then and there. So, to this day your 
Jack does n't know what an average girl of the 
present day does, might, could, would, or should 
find on a Christmas-tree. 


Here are two of the most interesting letters that 
have come in answer to your Jack's question 
about the durion. The returned Burmese mission- 
ary and little Paul (who is only eleven years old) 
differ just enough to show that their accounts are 
drawn from actual knowledge — and they agree 
more than enough to make us all long for a taste 

*See St. Nicholas for September, page 900. 




of the queer thing that is so pleasant in itself, and 
yet, as I 'm told, takes its name from " thorn," 
which in Malayan is called dury. 


Dear Jack : I can tell you about the durion, or, as it is some- 
times called, the dorean, for I have eaten many of them, and oh, 
how I wish I could get one now! I was a missionary for six years 
in Burmah, where two of your readers, Edith and Agnes, were 

Well, about the durion. It is a fruit of oval shape, from ten to 
twelve inches in length, and from six to eight inches in diameter. It 
is of a light green color, and, when fully grown, the outer shell is 
covered with spines or thorns half an inch in length. These thorns 
are very tough and strong. 

If any of your little readers will look at the seed-pod of the 
"Jamestown weed," or, as the boys call it, the "jimson-weed," they 
will have a good representation, in miniature, of the durion. 

The interior is divided into five sections or compartments, in which 
lie rows of seeds about an inch long, surrounded by the delicious 
pulp, which is what we eat. Oh, the luxury of this pulp! Its 
delicate yet pungent flavor is almost indescribable. 

The nearest approach to an imitation which I can imagine would 
be to take the sweetest bananas, the richest pine-apples, the most 
juicy of oranges, some peaches and cream, flavor the mixture with 
some rare spice, and you would have something which might resem- 
ble a very poor durion. It is twelve years since I bought my last 
durion in the bazar in Rangoon, Burmah, but its remembrance 
makes my mouth water as I write. How I wish I could get 
another ! 

I asked the natives why the outer shell was so thorny. They 
said that it was to keep the monkeys from eating the fruit. Poor 
monkeys ! how I pity them. The only durions they can eat are the 
overripe ones, which fall from the trees and burst open. 

One strange thing about the durion is its odor. This, to many, 
is offensive in the last degree ; yet, strange to say, others can not de- 
tect in it anything disagreeable. As for me, I could never smell any- 
thing but a pine-apple flavor, very strong, but very appetizing; yet a 
dear brother-missionary declared that a durion smelled exactly like 
" a very dead rat, and a musk-rat at that." 

It is needless to say that this brother did not like durions. I 
have often tried to detect the disagreeable odor, but in vain ; yet I 
once saw a party of new residents put to flight from the dinner-table 
by the solemn entry of a native servant, bearing what the host 
regarded as the chief feature of the dessert — a magnificent durion. 
You say " the durion is a native of Borneo." This is true, but it 
grows to perfection in Southern Burmah and the Malay peninsula. 

The King of Burmah sends every year special steamers to Maul- 
main, Burmah, to procure the most royal specimens of this right 
royal fruit. 

The tree is a hardy one, and I think the only difficulty in raising 
it under glass would be to get a large enough house, as it grows 
about sixty feet in height. 

There is, as the children say, "ever so much more" about the 
durion, which I will leave unsaid; but, flow I wish 1 could get 
one! ' R. M. Luther, Philadelphia, Pa. 


Brookline, Mass., Sept. 5, 1882. 

Dear Jack-in-the-Pulpit: I read in the September St. Nicho- 
las that you wanted to know about an East Indian fruit called 
the durion. My father, who has lived out in the East Indies, 
told me about it, and I am writing what he told me. 

He says he has seen the durion in British Burmah, and he believes 
it is found throughout the Malay peninsula. The Burmese are 
wonderfully fond of it. As the season approaches, the natives in 
Rangoon and Maulmain talk about the durion so much that foreign- 
ers who hear of it for the first time think the natives have gone 
crazy over the fruit. The love for the durion is not confined to the 
natives alone, fir Europeans living in Burmah become mastered by 
the appetite, and are as eager as the natives for the first durion. The 
durion, as seen in Burmah, is from nine to fifteen inches long, and 
from seven to nine inches in diameter, and has an oval shape. It 
is very heavy, and is covered outside with long, sharp thorns, about 
as close together as those on a horse-chestnut. There are not very 
many durions in Burmah, and they are wanted so much that two or 
three rupees {$1.00 or $1.50) are often paid for one. Durions are 
usually sold before they are ripe, and the buyer carries the fruit 
home with a delight that one who has not seen it can not under- 
stand. Then it is hung up to ripen, generally on the veranda, out 
of reach of the children, who are wild for it. Now comes one of 
the strangest things about the fruit: as it becomes nearly ripe, it 
emits a horrible odor, which is so nauseating that, when my father 
was there, passengers on steamers m those waters were absolutely 
forbidden to bring a durion aboard. In'a few days the fruit is ready 
to eat, and the outer husk comes off in regular sections, lengthwise 

of the fruit. When the hull, which is about half an inch thick, is 
taken off, the eatable parts of the fruit are seen inclosed in a sort of 
pocket, formed by thin, white partitions that run the length of the 
fruit. The eatable part is a rich, golden yellow. It completely fills 
the compartment, but is itself divided into sections about two inches 
long, each section containing a smooth, hard stone. The fruit is 
eaten by taking out a section with the fingers. The taste, as my 
father describes it, is like the very richest custard, flavored with 
coffee and garlic, and smelling with the traces of the smell that it 
had when ripening. It is reported that some years ago the King 
of Burmah sent a steamer from Ava to Maulmain for a load of 
durions, and on her return so many had spoiled that those that 
were left cost him about a thousand dollars apiece. But the King 
and the court were satisfied to gratify their longing for durions, even 
at that price. — Your constant reader, Paul C. West. 




Chicago, Oct. 2, 1882. 
Dear Jack: Please tell me if "Jabberwocky," mentioned in that 
poem in the St. Nicholas, is a book, and who wrote it, and what 
it means, and if English-speaking children can understand it? 

I will look in your pages for your answer. I know other children 
all over the country will be glad to know, unless they are better 
informed than Rose Barrows. 

Well, well ! Jack thought everybody knew 
about the Jabberwocky! Now, my dear little 
snarks — I mean chicks — who '11 tell Alice — I 
mean Rose — about the Looking-Gl — I mean 
Jabberwocky ? 







If, at first, we had any doubts that teachers and school-boys and 
school-girls all over the land would welcome our plan of suggesting 
to our readers four subjects for school compositions each month, we 
certainly have none now. From all parts of the country the response 
of the young folk: and their instructors has been so hearty that we 
feel ourselves fairly enlisted in a common cause. A great many 
compositions have been received at the St. Nicholas editorial 
rooms, some of them admirable, and almost all showing painstaking 
and a careful study of the picture offered as a theme. 

Next month we shall print the composition that seems to us to be 
the best, and, on the whole, the most likely to interest the majority of 
our readers. Meantime, we thank the young writers heartily, and 
congratulate them upon their zeal and voluntary industry. We do 
not propose to criticise these scores of compositions. If our sug- 
gestion has been carried out, nearly all of them, by this time, have 
been presented in school to the respective teachers of the writers, 
who are better able than we to note the excellences, point out the 

defects, and give needed advice and instruction. In future, we do 
not ask even to see the manuscripts, excepting when we offer a pict- 
ure in connection with a subject. Then we shall be glad to see the 
compositions, with the view of selecting one for publication. And 
we should like very much if, in writing compositions, all who choose 
the St. Nicholas subjects will let us know of the fact. It will 
be a pleasure to know that hundreds of boys and girls in this wide 
country and elsewhere are taking new interest in what is often a 
trying part of their school labors, from the fact that they are 
writing in concert, and "wrestling" with similar points and diffi- 

This month, the subjects offered to you, with the compliments of 
St. Nicholas, are: 

If I had $1,000, what would I do with it? 


Two Kinds of Courage. 
My Favorite Book*. 

The report of the Agassiz Association is unavoidably crowded out of " The Letter-box " this month, but a partial report will be found 
upon page 12 of the advertising department, just before the frontispiece. We are very sorry to have to omit some of the most interesting 
letters, but they will be included in the report printed in the January number. 

To the Children of America. 

The Longfellow Memorial Association has been organized in 
Cambridge, Mass., to provide a suitable memorial to the poet near 
his old home. There is a piece of land opposite the house in which 
he lived, which was kept open during Mr. Longfellow's life-time, that 
he might have a free view of the Charles River and the hills beyond. 
It was in a room looking out upon this favorite scene that he wrote 
"Excelsior," "The Children's Hour," "Maidenhood," and other 
poems which have made his name dear to the young, and the 
Association aims to buy the land, lay it out as a garden, build there 
a memorial to the poet, and keep the place, so endeared by associa- 
tion, forever open to the public. 

The contribution of one dollar or more makes one an honorary 
member of the Association ; but, in order to give the children 
throughout America a share in this memorial, the Association invites 
contributions often cents. In order that it may be made easier to 
collect and forward these gifts, teachers and superintendents are 
requested to act as agents. For every ten such subscriptions a 
package often memorial cards will be mailed to the address of the 
sender, ti> be distributed to the several contributors. The card con- 
tains an excellent portrait of Mr. Longfellow, a view of the house in 
which he lived, and one of his poems in a fac-simile of his hand- 
writing. It is also thought that a package of these cards may some- 
times be found an acceptable and appropriate present from teachers 
to scholars. 

Contributions should be sent to John Bartlett, Treasurer, F. O 
Box 1590, Boston. Mass Single cards will not be sent. 

New Orleans. 
Dear St. Nicholas: Will you please tell me if the picture of 
Dorothy Reed in the October number was taken from a photograph. 
If it was, does she live in New York? All the boys that I know, 
who have seen the engraving, have fallen dead in love with her, 
including myself, and all the girls think she looks "just too awfully 
sweet." I think that it is the loveliest portrait of a girl I have ever 
seen anywhere. — Yours truly. E. F. P. 

F.. F. P. — Dorothy's picture came to us all the way from Eng- 
land. It is an excellent likeness, however, and the original is liv- 
ing in . But no; eighty thousand boys would be too many 

admirers, and if they all should try to call on New Year's Day, what 
would poor Dorothy do! Besides, E. T. might object to our giving 

the lady's address to so many hoys. 

About a Gossamer-like Veil. 

Beaver Falls, Pa. 
Dear St. Nicholas : Seeing an article in the September " Jack- 
in-the-Pulpit " about woven wind reminds me of an article I read 
about a fabric of the same kind which was made in Greece. A lady 
once had a wedding-veil of such length that it would trail upon the 
ground for several yards. Yet a case representing an English wal- 
nut would contain it; but it would not unless folded in the same 
manner as the workman had folded it. A. H. 

We printed in " The Letter-box " of last month a copy of a page 
from the new edition of St. Nicholas in Arabic, and a brief item 
telling how the translation came to be made. But the Rev. H. H. 
Jessup, in a letter written since the issue of the November number, 
gives so many interesting facts in connection with the Arabic edition 
that we must present to our readers the following extracts from his 
letter : 

* "' "Concerning the Arabic St. Nicholas, we have published 
several illustrated books in Arabic during the past ten years, but none 
of exactly this style, and no illustrated book has ever been printed in 
Arabic equal to this in the character of its cuts, its superior paper, 
and execution. It was designed, as was the 'Baby Days' in 
English, for the Arab babies. The learned among the Arabs look 
with horror upon the attempt to bring down the stately Arabic to 
the comprehension of children, but we believe in Syria that it can be 
done : and Moallim Hourani, one of the best Arabic scholars of our 
time, thinks that the Arabic can be correctly written and yet be 
made simple enough for the youngest readers. 

"The printing of this, as well as the binding, was done at the 
American Mission Press, in Beirut. The paper came from the estab- 
lishment of Messrs. Smith & Meynier, at Fiume, on the Adriatic. The 
type is all cast at our Beirut American Type Foundry, by native 
Arab workmen. 

" I took the liberty to add to the original articles translated from 
St. Nicholas several of the Mother Goose rhymes, such as 'Old 
Mother Hubbard,' 'The House that Jack Built,' and others, besides 
introducing several of the ancient original Arab nursery rhymes, 
which are not inferior in beauty to anything in the English language. 

" The edition was printed just before I left Beirut, and the copy 
sent to you was the first one bound. I showed a copy to the 
American missionaries in Egypt on board the steamer in the harbor 
of Alexandria, June 19th, and they expressed their approbation of this 
juvenile literary undertaking. There are now about 15,000 boys 
and girls in Christian schools in Syria and Palestine; and now that 
the Egyptian war has ceased, and order is being restored, I doubt 
not that there will be an increasing demand for a children's literature 
in the Arabic language." 



Dear Girls and Boys : St. Nicholas will be as happy as any 
of you this Christmas. In fact, every day in the year is a small 
Christmas to him, since every day brings a score or more of your 
eager, affectionate letters. If you could see them all, you would own 
that only a very solemn and preoccupied saint could help being 
made happy by them. And we can not resist the temptation to 
print a few of these letters here, though it is almost like trying to 
show you the sea in a water-pail. However, the pail of water would 
represent the sea, and so, if you '11 just remember that each of these 
charming letters counts for a hundred more very like it, you MI 
understand what a great big flock of little joys it is that comes fly- 
ing in to St. Nicholas from the post-boxes day after day. 

We are only sorry that we can not print all the letters, but that 
would require a whole number of St. Nicholas. And we must see 
that the young friends who write from far away are not slighted in 
the few here given. So, we '11 begin with two letters from the other 
side of the world : 

St. Germain en Laye, 

26 Rue de Pontoise, 
June 9, 1882. 

My Dear St. Nicholas : Last Christmas Papa subscribed for 
your magazine, and 1 think it is so interesting that I hope he will 
get it for me next year. In December I crossed the ocean, and 
came over here. I have been traveling, and have visited the Littoral 
of France, Northern Italy, and Madrid. And when I was fatigued 
I would read St. Nicholas. 

My sister Minnie will soon commence to read it, too, I hope. I 
always wait with great impatience for the next number. I was so 
happy this morning, when I received the June number! I have 
already read half of it to-day. 

From your constant reader, Nettie M. T. 

Ventnor, Isle of Wight. 
Dear St. Nicholas : I write to tell you that we got a copy of the 
St. Nicholas in London, and, although it has a different cover, in- 
side it is the same old friend that we have known so many years in 
America and hope soon to see again. 

Your friend, Nettie F. Little. 

And here is a letter which comes from a place almost as far away, 
but in the opposite direction. It was written at Fort Apache, 

Fort Apachk. 

Dear St. Nicholas : My father is an army officer. We see 
lots of Indians everyday. At first we were a little frightened to 
have the squaws come in the houses, but we are used to it now. 
There was an Indian battle here last year. I guess you read 
about it in the papers. General Carr was in command. My papa 
was wounded; he is well now. I take the St. Nicholas, and 
watch for it every month. We have no schools out here. I think 
"Donald and Dorothy " is an elegant story. This fort is up in the 
mountains, with still higher ranges above it. It often rains down 
here and snows up in the mountains. I must stop now. 

Your constant reader, Mae G. 


Next, from the "piny woods'' of Florida, comes this lovely 
message of C. D. R's. : 

Fort Mason. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I thought I would write you a letter and 

tell you that I think all the pieces in St. Nicholas are just splendid. 

St. Nicholas could not be any better, I don't believe. It is the 
best magazine for young people I have ever seen, I think. 

St. Nicholas is sent to me as a Christmas present from a very 
kind auntie of mine. I don't know what I should do without it. I 
live in the piny woods of Florida. The nearest little girl that I have 
to play with lives nearly two miles away, but I don't get very lone- 
some. I look forward with a great deal of pleasure to the day that 
brings St. Nicholas to me. — Yours truly, C. D. R. 



unny South, this time fron 

And here is another letter froi 

Ripon, W. Va. 

Dear St. Nicholas : I have a little girl nine years old who is, as 
are all the "brothers and sisters" (and her "cousins and her 
aunts"), a devoted friend and admirer of St. Nicholas. The 
magazine has been a valued member of the household for eight 
years. I wonder sometimes if he fills as important a position in any 
other. Here he is physician as well as instructor and playfellow; 
for, when Elsie's earache gets very bad she begs, " Please, Mamma, 
get St. Nicholas and read a story, then I wont mind the pain"; 
and last summer, when Nanninc, another daughter, had to lie for 
weeks in a darkened room, with bandaged eves, her chief comfort 
was to have me ask her the h.ird questions in the Riddle-box, or 
read over and over Miss Alcott's charming stories. Even black 
Frank, our boy-of-all-work, thinks he can polish the shoes better if I 
let him bring his box and brush to the parlor door (you know the 
Southern custom of sitting with open doors) while I read aloud 
from St. Nicholas. And I, myself, am most grateful to this 
children's friend for its help in the nursery. P. V. B. 

Blanche B. knows some other grown people who like to read 
St. Nicholas: 

Dear St. Nicholas : We have been taking St. Nicholas 
for six years, and can hardly tell you how much we have 
enjoyed it. 

When Papa brings it home we all make a rush for it, to 
see which can get it first, and its contents are enjoyed both 
by the grown people and the little folks. 

I think it only justice to say that the St. Nicholas is 
the most perfect magazine in existence. 

With many kind wishes for the future prosperity of the 
St. Nicholas, I remain, yours sincerely, Blanche B. 

From the host of letters from Illinois we can give only this one : 

Englewood, Illinois. 
Dear St. Nicholas : We have taken your dear magazine from 
the very first number; and really now, it does n't seem as if we 

could possiblv get along without you. 

There are four of us — two boys and two girls. I am the oldestand 
my little brother Allic is the youngest. We have enjoyed the stories 




all the time, especially those by Miss Alcott, " Under the Lilacs," 
and " Eight Cousins." We have had all our numbers for each year 
bound, and they make quite a library. 

There are very many of the stories that we read again and again. 
There was a picture published in the Letter-box, in one of the num- 
bers a year or two ago, of a little negro boy with a brick lying at his 
feet. This legend was at the foot of the picture : 

" This figure is a nigure 
Made sick by a brick." 

Little Allie used to get the book with that in it, and hunt till he found 
that picture. Almost before he could talk plain, he would sit on 
the floor and point first to the "nigure," and then to the "brick," 
until he actually soiled the picture, and you could see the print of a 
finger on the brick, and on the little darkey boy's face. 

Each number seems as good as can be, and yet, the next is sure 
to be better. In the Letter-box for June, iSSi, there were two 
letters telling how two people succeeded in the magic dance, spoken 
of in the March number of the same year. We tried it and made it 
a success. It was quite amusing. We had to try two or three 
times before we got the glass the right distance from the table ; but 
when we did the figures danced merrily. 

About the time we expect the St. Nicholas, the first thing that 
Papa hears when he comes from up- town is, " Hasn't the St. Nicho- 
las come yet ? " And when it does come, we are all eager for the 
first look at it. 

Your constant and affectionate reader, Jennie. 

"jolly yarn, that 

May K.'s letter comes from Pennsylvania, and is too good to 

Scranton, Pa. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I like your magazine very much, and so 
does my teacher — at least I think she does, because she lets us use 
it to read in school instead of a Reader, which is ever so nice. I 
attend a lovely little school which is held up in the tower of a house. 
We four little girls in the tower call it " Bellevue Tower," because 
there is a beautiful view from it. But there are some things around 
Scranton that spoil the scenery very much, I think: they are black 
mountains. Perhaps some of the readers of the St. Nicholas have 
never seen them. They are made of immense piles of culm, that 
look very impudent as if trying to make themselves seem as high as 

We have taken the St. Nicholas ever since it was started. My 
sister, who is now a young lady, was the first one in the family who 
took it; and now, it has been handed down to us younger members. 
Did you ever hear of the little girl in England who, when her 
mother told her that American children were whipped when they 
were naughty, replied: "I am sorry for them if they have to be 
whipped, but then I don't think they can have so bad a time, after 
all, because they have the St. Nicholas there." 

Three cheers for the St. Nicholas! Your little friend, May K. 

An enterprising boy of Western New York has this to say: 

Ellington, Chautauqua Co., N. Y. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I have taken you ever since I was six 
years old, and the longer I take you the better I like you. I take 
several magazines and papers, but St. Nicholas is the best of all. 
Of all the continued stories that ever appeared in St. Nicholas, I 
like "Jack and Jill " the best. I can sympathize with Jack in his 
passion for stamp collecting, but I like to collect coins and minerals 
better than that. Minerals and fossils are very numerous about here, 
and I have a good collection. We have a Chapter of the A. A., of 
which I am the secretary. 

Your faithful reader, Willie H. Van A. 

New York City sends us a multitude of letters, and we are very 
sorry that room can not be made for more than one. But that one is 
from a girl of nineteen years, who, we are glad to see, belongs to the 
host of older readers who say they will never get too old to read 
St. Nicholas. 

New York. 

Dear St. Nicholas: I have been meaning to write you for along 
time, to say how much I have always enjoyed you. The talks with 
the dear Little School-ma'am and Jack-in-the-Pulpit are especially 
interesting to me; please be sure and give them my love. Though 
I am nineteen years old, still I don't feel a bit " grown-up," and 
love the stories as much as ever. I wish Miss Alcott would write 
another story. I like hers so much. All her characters are so 
natural. A favorite amusement of mine is looking for people from 
the "book world" when I am out, and often I meet Jo, Laurie, and 
Amy from " Little Women "(one of the loveliest books in the world), 
and Rose, Mac, and Uncle Alec from " Eight Cousins." I have 
taken you, dear St. Nicholas, since the commencement, and I 
think if you could see all my bound copies in the book-case, you 
would know, by the mutilated covers, they had been read and re- 
read by us all. I have written a long letter now, so will say good- 
bye, you dear old St. Nicholas. 

Your loving and constant reader. Julie B. 

And next — But no! We have hardly dipped into the mass of 
welcome and cheering missives, and should like to follow with scores 
in addition to those given above. But already our allotted space is 
filled. " Jennie," " Julie B.," and all the hundreds of boys and girls 
who have spoken of Miss Alcott's stories will be glad to see that a 
short story from her pen appears in this number of St. Nicholas, 
and to know that she will contribute others during the year. 

For your hearty and encouraging messages, dear young friends, 
we can only thank you warmly, one and all, far and near, while we 
rejoice in every fresh delight, inspiration, and aid that you find in the 
pages of St. Nicholas. 

We must make room, even in an overcrowded "Letter-box," for 

these clever verses from a friendly correspondent in New York : 

Are Gilbert and Sullivan Responsible? 

Once I loved a little maiden, 

Frolicsome and gay was she; 
Said I, "Prithee, pretty maiden, 

Will you, will you marry me?" 
All her laughter then she silenced, 

And with looks and tones polite 
Said, " My stock of ' Patience,' kind sir, 

You have now exhausted quite." 

Then I tried her heart to soften. 
Said I, sighing deep and long, 
' You'll responsible be ever, 

For a noble man gone wrong." 

But she answered, gayly laughing, 

Giving me a wicked glance, 

' Much I fear your woes are due, sir, 

To the 'Pirates of Penzance.'" 

Then I tried the cool and lofty, 

Said I'd leave her then and there, 
Said I'd never so been treated 

By a maiden, howe'er fair. 
But I heard in tones derisive, 
As I turned me from the door, 
1 ' Hardly ever' you should say, sir, 
If you quote from 'Pinafore' ! " 

I. B. C. 






A tattered fragment. 3. A knave. 4. A 
. To protect from danger. 6. Termination. 


Centrals (reading downward) : A festiva. 
Across: i. Wcoden plates. 2. A mode of engraving. 3. A 
fabulous monster. 4. A transgression. 5. In Santa Claus. 6. 


Some Colors for Christmas. In each of the twelve monograms 
here given, find the letters necessary to spell a color. 

A Greeting. These letters contain a greeting, and the puzzle 
consists in combining the letters of the two lines in such a way as 
to form the desired sentence. c. f. 



7. A tropical fruit 


To respire. 9. To metamor- 
Phil. I. Pine. 

I. 1. The name of a general in a very recent war. 2. Estimates. 
3. A coral island. 4. A courted beauty. 5. A small island. 

II. 1. A Turkish governor. 2. A book of maps. 3. To come 
in collision. 4. Hurry. 5. Pallid. 

The first words of the two squares, when read in connection, name 
a well-known military commander. fancy. 


Each of the words described contains six letters; when these 
words are placed one below another, in the order here given, the 
fourth line of letters will name a personage who is very important at 
the season named by the third line of letters. 

Cross-words: i. An alarm-bell. 2. To draw into the lungs. 3. 
To mock. 4. An old-fashioned musical instrument, resembling a 
piano. 5. A heavy quality of broadcloth. 6. A plant somewhat 
like mint. 7. Neglectful. 8. Marked out. o. Vessels in which food 
is served, ro. Staffs used by conductors 01 musical performances. 
11. Wound in circles. 12. To call for in a peremptory manner. 13. 
Decorations worn on helmets. c. F. 

I. Upper Sqlare: i. An American general. 2. Severity of 
climate. 3. Past. 4. Nine days alter the ides in the Roman calen- 
dar. 5. A lock of hair. 

II. Left-hand Square: i. A river of England. 2. More 
uncivilized. 3. To draw out. 4. Parts which connect heads with 
bodies. 5. A lock of hair. 

III. Central Square: i. A lock of hair. 2. Proportion. 3. 
A girl's name. 4. A continued attempt to gain possession. 5. 
Five-eighths of a word meaning an impropriety of language or 

IV. Right-hand Square: i. Five-eighths of a word meaning 
an impropriety of language or speech. 2. The rudimentary state 
of a seed. 3. Part of the name of a famous opera by Donizetti. 4. 
An eminent prophet of Israel. 5. To come to an end. 

V. Lower Square: i. Five-eighths of a word meaning an 
impropriety of language or speech. 2. A musical composition. 3. 
A tropical fruit. 4. To eat into or away. 5. Walking-sticks. 



I am composed of thirty-three letters, and am a Spanish proverb. 

My 3-23-11-17 is a river of Africa. My 27-8-25-9 is conversation. 
My 5-15-30-31-7 is a contrivance for heating. My 6-13-2-33 is indi- 
gent. My 14-20-26-21-18 is an elf. My 4-28-12-19 is a piece of 
baked clay. My 24-32-22 is to permit. My 1-10-29-16 is a broad, 
open vessel. paul oakford. 






The answer consists of two lines from 
"Marmion," by Sir Walter Scott, and is 
suggested by the largest picture in the accom- 
panying illustration. The key-words are not 
defined in the usual way, but are represented 
by pictures, each of which refers, by a Roman 
numeral, to its own set of Arabic numerals 
given in the statement of the puzzle. Thus: 
"XII. 6-30—28-15-54-39" indicates that the 
sixth, thirtieth, twenty-eighth, fifteenth, fifty- 
fourth, and thirty-ninth letters of the answer, 
s-p-r-i-t-e, spell a word which describes the 
picture bearing the Roman numeral XII. 

I. 38-46-14-23-57. II. 37-51-36-19-40-2- 

IV. 25-1-33-28-13-20. V. 50-39-22-8-58-42. 

VII. 10-7-41 -56-29-8-58-45. VIII. 3-26-4-32-36. IX. 

5-1 4-24-3 1-36. XI. 16-44-21-36-29, DUDLEY. 


SPIRAL. — Among the guests our country hostess passes. 
And from the heavy gallon jug 
With courtly style and pleasant smile 
Drops cider in the glasses. 
Diamond: i. G. 2. Set. 3. Sinew. 4. General. 5. Terms. 

6. Was. 7. L. Novel Cross-word Enigma : Bryant. 

Numerical Enigma : To receive honestly is the best'thanks for a 

good thing. Cross-word Enigma:. Thanksgiving. 

Rhomboid. Across: i. Scat 2. Oral. 3. Trim. 4. Eden. 
Half-square: i. Domino. 2. Opens. 3. Mend. 4. Ind. 1. 
N. S. 6. O. 
Thanksgiving Maze: See accompanying illustration. 

Answers to all of the Puzzles in the October Number 
were received, before October 20, from Minnie B. Murray — F. L. 
Atbush — Mama and Bae. 

Answers to September Puzzles were received, too late for 
acknowledgment in the November number, from Bella and Cora 
Wehl, Frankfort, Germany, 5 — Potrero, 12. 

Answers to Puzzles in the October Number were received, 
before October 20, from Melissa and Theodore, 1 — J. W. Parker, 
3 — Ehrick R. and Florence P. Jones, 1— Sara M. and Edith 
Gallaudet, 6 — Philip Embury, Jr., 5— John Burnet Nash, 1 — 
"Two ./Esthetic Maidens," 5 — B. C. R., 13 — Erne K. Talboys, 6 

— Professor and Co., 12 — Theo. Richards, 1 — " Alcibiades," 11 — 
Nellie J. Parker, 3— Clara J. Child, 13 — A. G. and E. W., 7- 
D. S. Crosby, Jr., and H. W. Chandler, 8 — Maggie Tolderlund, 1 

— "Two Subscribers," 12 — " Thick and Thin," 13 — S. and E., 2 

— "Shumway," 9 — Phil. I. Pine, 2 — Lavinien d'Amaulis, 13 — 

Etta M. Taylor, 1 — Gertrude Lansing and Julia Wallace, 8 — Genie J. Callmeyer, 8 — Warren, 5 — Snip and Snap, 7 — Katie L. Robertson, 
9 — Clara and her Aunt, 10 — Vin and Henry, 8 — C. L. Slattery, 12 — Florence P. Jones, 1 — Appleton H., 12 — Florence Leslie Kyte, 
— "Johnston and Co.," 6 — Alice Robinson, 3 — David H. Dodge, 1. 

^if^u '%T'f: P;' ^i^^l';;'"^:'^ . -„' f(>:;f:u -;'i\»: ifi',;' 




Vol. X. 

JANUARY, 1883. 

No. 3. 

(Copyright, 1882, by The CENTURY CO.l 

By Katharine R. McDowell. 

"Two dollars a visit!" cried Dot in dismay, 
forgetting entirely that she had come to look for a 
spool of No. 40 in Mamma's drawer, and opening 
her brown eyes wider and wider as she read 
the heading of an old bill of Dr. Cogswell's. 

"Two dollars a visit!" she repeated. "Oh, 
why does n't Donnie get well ? And where is all 
the money to come from ? " she asked herself, 
sadly. " We will get very poor," continued Dot, 
shaking her little brown head slowly over the bill. 
After thinking awhile, she slipped the paper in 
her pocket and went down-stairs. 

Mamma and Sister Margie were sewing. Dot 
went quietly to Mrs. Ledyard and whispered : 

" We '11 feel very poor afterward, wont we, 
Mamma ? " 

Mamma smiled. A sad smile, Dot thought, as 
she replied: " You 're better at guessing than we 
supposed. Now, why don't you take your trim- 
ming, little daughter, and go into the library? 
There 's a nice fire on the hearth, and you can 
work away like a bee. We '11 need it soon, you 
know," added Mamma, for Dot was rather inclined 
to dream when she was alone. 

"We '11 need it soon," repeated Dot, as she 
climbed up in the big library chair. '" We '11 need 
it soon. Oh, why did n't they tell me ! Why did 
they leave me to find it out for myself? I might 
have worked yards and yards by this time, and 
sold them for ever so much, but I supposed it was 
just to give me something to do, and I 've some- 
times not done more than one scallop in a whole 

afternoon," confessed Dot, as she made her little 
ivory needle fly in and out of her work, as if any 
one could ever make up for time wasted. 

"And to think I never once thought that 
Mamma and Sister Margie were making those 
things to sell, nor how much 't was costing to have 
the doctor coming every day, and sometimes twice 
a day. Poor Donnie ! Perhaps he 's worse than 
they tell me. Perhaps," and there was a great 
lump in her throat, "he 's going to die, and they 
are leaving me to find that out." Two great tears 
rolled slowly down the pretty, round cheeks. 
"But why, then, do they keep a-tellin' me he 's 
better?" The tears had dropped on the crochet 
trimming, and two more were following in their 

Tom went into the barn to clean his gun. Dot 
saw him. 

"I '11 ask him," she decided, as she put her 
work hurriedly in a little silk handkerchief, and 
started with it for the barn. " He wont tease me 
when he knows how badly I feel." 

It was a very sad little face that peered in at 
the barn-door. 

" Halloo ! " was Tom's greeting. " Been crying?" 

" Yes," admitted Dot, in a voice that could 
leave no doubt of it in any one's mind. 

"What's up?" continued Tom, as he rubbed 
away at his gun. " Want any help ? " 

"Oh, yes, Tom; that 's just what I've come 
for. Wont you talk real sober with me ? " 

" Nary a smile from me," said Tom. Then, 




glancing sidelong at the little face in the door- 
way, he added, " Come in and state your case. 
Here 's a seat on the hay," as he lifted her gently 
upon a pile he had just brought down for the 
horses. " There ! are you cold ? " 

"Not a bit," said Dot, smiling thankfully. "I 
have brought my cloak." 

"All right, then; go ahead," said Tom, cheer- 

"Well, you know, Tom," began Dot, in her 
sweet, timid voice; "there 's a secret in there," 
pointing toward the house, "and I never found 
it out till this morning." 

" So you found it out, did you? Well, I told 
'em you would." 

" I would n't, but for the bill." 

"You would n't what ?" asked Tom, who was 
rubbing away again. 

"I '11 tell you about that afterward. When I 
went into the sitting-room, Mamma and Margie 
were sewing." 

" That certainly did n't surprise you ! " laughed 

"O Tom! how can you make fun of it all? 
Mamma looked just ready to cry, and — oh, oh, oh, 
what can we ever do about it ! " as she threw herself 
face downward on the hay, and sobbed as though 
her little heart would break, while Tom stood by 
in speechless astonishment, wondering why the 
words " Two dollars a visit " seemed mingled with 
her sobs. 

"Does she know, after all?" he asked himself. 
"I must n't forget my promise to Mother, but I 
must give the child some comfort," he thought, as 
he went over toward the little blue cloak on the 

" Come, Dot," said he, tenderly. " Don't cry. 
You have n't told me yet what the matter is. 
Now we '11 sit right up here, while you tell Tom 
all about it." 

After a while, Dot managed to say: 

" Does n't Dr. Cogswell charge people who are 
ill two dollars every time he goes to see them ? " 

"Something like that, I believe," answered 
Tom, wonderingly. 

" It 's exactly that," said Dot, feeling for the 
bill. " O Tom, we must owe him hundreds of 
dollars ! " 

There was a queer look in Tom's eyes. 

" I suppose we do," he said. 

"But have we got the money to pay him?" 
questioned Dot, the brown eyes swimming again. 

" No, I don't believe we have." 

"Then, what are we going to do?" said Dot, 
with another sob. 

" There, Dot," said Tom, soothingly. " Don't 
be so foolish as to cry. It 's all coming out 

right. I can't tell you now just how, but take my 
word for it." 

"Tom," called Mrs. Ledyard, "they 're all 
waiting for you." 

"The boys have come, Dot," said Tom, giving 
her a hasty kiss. "Now, remember not to worry. 
It 's coming out all right." 

Dot sat a long time on the hay. 

" Tom always thinks everything 's going to come 
out all right," she said, determined to be miserable. 
" He does n't know anything about money. Mar- 
gie says so, and I know myself he does n't, 'cause 
I once owed him five cents for weeks, and, when I 
went to pay him, he 'd forgotten all about it, and 
said I must have dreamed it. He 's gone off now 
to sleigh-ride and does n't care how hard we 're all 
workin'," and the little needle flew faster than ever. 
"I just know he thinks Dr. Cogswell is n't going to 
charge, but he is, for here 's one bill and he 's 
probably got another all ready. 

" He could just as well not charge," she went 
on, "for Edith Olcott told me he was ever 'n' ever 
so rich, and that he 's got a house in the city even 
prettier than this. But how could one be ? " she 
wondered. " How could any room be lovelier than 
the one Mrs. Crane took Edith and me into the 
other day ? the little one with the window look- 
ing on the lake, and the little bed with curtains 
and everything blue, carpet and all. Dr. Cogs- 
well calls it his little sister's room, and she 's com- 
ing in the spring." 

The little fingers never did better work than that 
day, for " Mamma would n't have told me they 
needed it if they did n't," Dot kept assuring 
herself. "Tom just wanted to comfort me. He 
does n't know how hard they 're workin' and 

That night, Dot added to her prayer the words, 
' ' O God, please don't let it be more than we 
can pay." 

" Let what?" asked Mamma, as she tucked her 
in bed. 

"The doctor's bill," whispered Dot, her arms 
very tight about Mrs. Ledyard's neck. 

Mrs. Ledyard smiled. She thought Dot was 
half-asleep, so she tiptoed quietly down-stairs to the 
library, and there found Tom telling Margie about 
Dot's trouble. 

The young doctor must have been there, too, or 
heard of it in some way, for he happened in the 
next morning right after breakfast, and the first 
thing he said was : 

" I 'm going to have my bill settled to-day, 
little Miss Dot," as with quite a grave face he 
took out his memoranda. 

" Let me see," he mused, " 1 began coming in 
May. Two visits a day, till — why it 's nearly 

83- J 



Christmas, is n't it ? Now, how much should you 
think it would come to ? " 

" Hundreds ! " said poor little Dot, faintly. 

" We want to be business-like," said Dr. Cogs- 
well; '"suppose you get your slate and figure it." 

Dot ran. " He is n't going to let us off a 
penny," she moaned. 

" Now, let 's do a little sum in arithmetic," said 
the doctor. " What does M. stand for? " 

" One thousand," said staggered little Dot, 
pushing the crochet-work way down in her pocket. 

"Very good," said the doctor. "Now, what 
does C. stand for ? " 

" One hundred," said Dot, trying to be brave. 

" And altogether ? " was the next question. 

"Eleven hundred," said Dot, tearfully. 

"H'm," coughed Dr. Cogswell. "Now, can 
you think of anything else they might stand for?" 

" No, sir," said Dot. 

"Why yes, you can, Dot," cried Donald, who 
had just been wheeled into the room. " M. C. ! " 
clapping his hands. " Why, Merry Christmas, 
don't you see ? " 

Dot smiled. 

" Then there is n't any bill? " she asked Tom. 

" Nary a bill," said Tom ; " but can't you think 
of anything else the letters might stand for ? " 

" No," said happy, stupid little Dot. 

" I can," cried Don, catching sight of some 
glances being exchanged, and Margie's pretty 
cheeks aglow. " Margie Cogswell ! " 

Then they all laughed, and the doctor caught 
Dot up and set her on his shoulder, and pranced 
with her into the cozy sitting-room. Pretty soon 
Don was wheeled into the sunny bay-window, and 
there they all sat the rest of the morning. 

Dot had to submit to a good deal of teasing, but 
she was very happy notwithstanding, and wrote in 
her diary that night, in such big letters that she 
went right over two or three of the following days: 

" The doctor was n't coming to see Don/lie, after 
all, and the?'C was n't any bill. I am going to be 
bridesmaid and wear white. There is n't any little 
sister but me, and I 'm agoing to have the little blue- 
room, whenever I want to go there to visit. " 


1 66 



By S. A. Sheilds. 


Tinkey lay under a wide-spreading apple tree, 
upon a bed of half-dried grass, that was not yet 
hay, but sending out the most delicious perfume 
of clover blossoms. Overhead, a clear blue sky, 
with soft white clouds dotting it here and there, 
and a blazing July sun, were only half visible 
through the thick leaves of the apple tree that 
made a cool shade where Tinkey was lying. 

It was holiday time, and all the long, hot days 
were free from Latin grammar or arithmetic; free 
to make fishing-parties, to play cricket, to toss hay, 
or to do as Tinkey was doing — lie about out-doors 
and find pleasure in pure idleness. It is not to 
be denied that Tinkey was lazy. He dearly loved 
a morning nap after the getting- up bell had 
sounded ; he liked to drop into soft chairs or upon 
the sofa, and dream of wonderful things he was 
going to do. All the activity and energy of great 
deeds lay in the future for Tinkey. who fully in- 
tended to become in some way famous when a man. 
In the meantime, he liked to lie under the apple 
tree, thinking. First, he counted all the green 
apples in sight, and wondered how soon they would 
be ripe ; then he watched the clouds and leaves wav- 
ing softly in the gentlest of summer breezes, and 
then he speculated as to whether Mrs. Davidson 

would have ice-cream at the party to which Tinkey 
and his brothers and sisters were invited that after- 
noon. It was to be a gathering of all the boys 
and girls for miles around — a sort of picnic on the 
beautiful grounds that surrounded Mrs. Davidson's 
large house, and a garden tea-party. 

"It must be lovely to be as rich as Mrs. David- 
son," thought Tinkey, lazily, ''and I might have 
had as much money once, if I had only wished for 
it. If I had another such a chance " 

" Well, what would you do with it if you had ? " 

Tinkey sat bolt upright and stared. That sharp, 
clear voice was certainly one he had heard before, 
and right in front of him, daintily balanced upon 
the tiniest of hay-cocks, was the little old-woman 
fairy, in her red cloak and pointed cap, who came 
in a butterfly-drawn car through the air. Tinkey 
did not see the car, but he was sure it was not far 

"Good-morning, ma'am," he stammered, when 
he could find voice enough to speak. " I hope you 
are well ? " 

" Now," said the fairy, " did you ever hear of a 
sick fairy? Of course I am well, and never had 
a pain in my life. It is great, clumsy people like 
you who are ill half the time. But I can't stand 



'• and 


chattering here. I Ye an engagement in Japan in 
half an hour, but as I was passing I heard you 
sighing for another chance to make a goose of 
yourself " 

'• It was a calf," corrected Tinkey 
not want to make a goose of myself, 
his eyes grew so round, and stuck out so far, it was 
really wonderful that they did not drop out. "Oh ! 
Are you going to let me have another wish ? " 

" H'm ! " said the fairy, rubbing her sharp little 
nose with a handkerchief that looked like the leaf 
of a tiny jessamine, "you don't seem to make 
much out of one wish. Suppose I give you a dozen 
or twenty." 

" Oh ! " cried Tinker. 

"Yes," said the little old woman. "I am 
going to see to-day how much you are to be trusted 
with having your own way. So, between now and 
sunset, 1 am going to let you have everything you 
wish for. Only, remember this : you can have 
but one wish for one thing. Xo 'takings back.' 
you understand. So if you w-ish yourself a goose, 
a goose you will have to remain." 

" Everything I wish for ! " cried Tinkey. " I do 
not believe fairy-land holds all I want ! " 

"You can try. But you had better think over 
the matter before you begin ! Good-bye." 

Then the fairy-car floated down 
from the apple tree, and a moment 
later Tinkey saw it float up again, 
higher and higher, till it was quite 
lost in a soft, fleecy cloud. 

Lazily wondering if that was an 
air-line to Japan, Tinkey tried to 
decide upon the treasures he should 
collect between that hour and sunset. 
Wealth, a fine house, a pony, a thou- 
sand boyish desires floated through 
his brain, but he resolved to do noth- 
ing hastily. Still it was a tempta- 
tion to test his power, and he said, 
with an air of command : 

" I wish for a plate of ice-cream." 

There it was, right in his hand, 
cold, white, delicious, and, to Tin- 
key's amazement, no matter how fast 
he ate, the white heap upon the plate 
did not grow any smaller. He might 
sit all day and eat ice-cream, if he 
wished ; but when he had had enough, and put 
down the plate on the hay, it melted in a second — 
spoon, plate, and cream vanishing like a dew-drop 
in the sun. 

Tinkey wondered if all fairy dishes were "cleared 
up" in this way, and laughed to think what a saving 
of house-work it would, be if dishes dropped down 
upon the table filled with food, and quietly melted 

away when the meals were over. But, while he 
was still thinking of that, the dinner-horn sounded 
faint and far away. 

"Oh dear!" sighed lazy Tinkey. "I wish I 
was at the table." 

The wish was scarcely formed before he felt him- 
self lifted up and shot across the meadow, in at the 
kitchen door, and plump into his chair, with a 
whizzing rapidity that took his breath away, and 
raised a serious doubt in his mind whether walking 
was not preferable to this sort of fairy locomotion. 

There was a great confusion of voices all through 
dinner, the children hurrying through the meal to 
dress for Mrs. Davidson's, and fidgeting until the 
dishes were cleared away and their mother took 
the younger ones to the nursery. 

"Your clothes are all on your bed, Tinkey," 
she said, as she went upstairs, "and remember 
your new suit must be your best one all summer." 

Excited by the prospect of meeting all his young 
friends and school-fellows, Tinkey rushed to his 
room, entirely forgetting the fairy and her promise. 
He had quite resolved to make no more foolish 
wishes, but to steal a quiet hour before sunset and 
wish for the very best fortune that could come to a 

The new suit, a pretty light gray, lay upon the 




bed, with the clean shirt, collar, and cuffs, a blue 
silk neck-tie and a snowy pocket-handkerchief, 
while on a chair were new shoes, shining like a 

Scrubbed to the perfection of cleanliness, clean 
linen nicely adjusted, Tinkey took up the pretty 
gray pants, and turned them around admiringly. 
It was the very first city-made suit he had ever 




possessed, his usual dress being the outgrown 
clothing of his older brother. But this one suit 
was all his own, made for him, fitting him, and he 
handled it carefully. It was still buttoned up, as 
it had come home, and, taking his seat upon the 
side of the bed, Tinkey unbuttoned one button, a 
second, but the third seemed to be too large for 
the button-hole, and would not come through. 


He twisted it and pushed it, coaxed it and jerked 
it, pushed it to the right, pulled it to the left, till 
he got red in the face, lost his temper, and cried 
aloud : 

" Bother the old trousers ! I wish they were in 

One jerk freed them from Tinkey's hold, and 
they soared into the air, as if with wings, escaping 
his outstretched hands, and flying through the 
open window like some huge, awkward bird, the 

new blue suspenders dangling provokingly out of 

Tinkey was ready to cry, but, instead, said : 
" I wish for another pair of trousers." 
But the wish was unheard or unheeded in fairy- 
land, and he sadly remembered that he could not 
have two wishes for any one thing. "Why can't 
I remember to think before I speak ? " thought Tin- 
key, ruefully tak- 
ing up his every- 
day trousers, cast 
aside with such 
contempt. They 
seemed to have 
grown shabbier in 
the few moments 
they had been on 
the floor. The 
knees had never 
looked so white and 
thin, the edges so 
frayed, the spots 
so big. 

" Perhaps they 
wont show much 
with a new coat 
and vest," thought 
Tinkey ; but they 
were drawn on very 
slowly, and it re- 
quired all the boy's 
manliness to keep 
back the tears. 

A call from down- 
stairs hurried him. 
"We're all ready, 
Tinkey ! Come ! " 
All ready ! There 
was no time then 
to lose, for if his 
father had the car- 
ryall harnessed up, 
he would not like 
to wait. Tinkey 
caught up his new 
shoes and thrust in 
one foot. A new 
shoe is not the very best thing to try to put on in 
a hurry, and so he found it. Voices from down- 
stairs were impatiently shouting: "Tinkey! Tin- 
key," as he tugged violently, but without avail, at 
the shoe his mother had thought had better be 
" one size larger." 

"Oh, come on!" said Tinkey. "I wish the 
shoes were twice as big ! " 

On slipped the shoe as easily as if it had been 
greased, Tinkey's foot lost in its suddenly in- 



creased size. Twice as big! To the round eyes 
gazing at them they looked as big as the barn, and 
if any little reader doubts it, let him measure 
twice the length and breadth of his boot, and put 
his foot upon the measure. 

Tears could no longer be kept back. Tinkey 
kicked the shoe into the corner of the room with a 
passionate sob. 

" I wont go ! " he cried. " I wont wear my old 
trousers and shoes with a great patch on them ! ' 

" Are you never coming? " shouted Bob 
from down-stairs. 

"I '11 walk over! Don't wait for 
me ! " Tinkey answered, and could 
hear them all laugh as Fannie said : 

" Tinkey 's prinking ! Wont he 
be fine ! " 

Should he go ? Mrs. Davidson's 
annual party was not to be lightly 
set aside, and was one of the great 
pleasures in Tinkey's quiet country 
life. Perhaps among so many his 
dress would not be noticed, and he 
had not seen some of the boys since 




school broke up. Very listlessly he took 
up the blacking-brush, and polished his 

old shoes to such perfection that, after all, 
the patches were scarcely seen, and once on, 
and neatly laced, they looked so well that, 
with a lighter heart, Tinkey sprang to his 
feet to complete his dressing. The mirror 
by the aid of which he arranged his collar 
and neck-tie did not reflect his pants, and the 
pretty silk tie was very becoming. Actually, 





Tinkey was whistling when he took up the comb 
to part his hair. 

Now, Tinker's hair was what old nurses call 
" stubborn," and its decided inclination was to 
stick straight out from his head. It could be 
coaxed to remain in good order about one hour, 
but after that was apt to rebel and fly off in every 
direction ; and to look neat, even for an hour, 
required coaxing, delicate little touches here and 
there, nice brushing of feathery plumes on the 
crown, and careful arrangement in front of locks 
that inclined to fall forward. Certainly it was not 
hair to appear at its best in a hurried arrange- 
ment, and the more Tinkey brushed, the more 
persistently it stuck out. He parted it on the 
left ; he tried a parting on the right ; he made a 
lovely white line down the middle; he " banged " 
it over his forehead, and each way looked worse 
than the last. 

"Oh, I wish I had n't any hair!" cried impa- 
tient Tinkey. 

Was there a rain of feathers? What was that 
flying into his eyes, up his nostrils, tickling his 
ears, down his throat, through a mouth opened 
wide in amazement ? Hair ! hair ! hair ! The whole 
room seemed to be full of it, flying heie and there, 
as if every hair was a fairy laughing at Tinkey's 
dismay. And when at last it had all swept itself 
with one grand rush out at the open window, 
Tinkey's head was as bald as a china door-knob. 

He gave one despairing glance at the mirror, 
•caught up his old coat, crammed his polo cap 
tightly over his bald pate, and rushed out of the 
house. Nobody noticed him as he ran, not to 
Mrs. Davidson's, but into the woods, into the 
deepest shadow he could find under the tall trees, 
where he threw himself down and cried like a baby. 

No wonder the fairy called him a goose ! No 
boy in his senses was ever so foolish ! It was bad 
enough to waste one fairy wish in being shot 
through the air like a cannon-ball, but to miss 
the party by such stupid folly was dreadful. 

"No wonder Father says, 'Think first, speak 
afterward,' " sobbed Tinkey. " A pretty looking 
object I have made of myself, and I can not 
imagine what Mother will say about my shoes and 
pants. And they must be having such a nice time 
now, playing all sorts of games. I 've half a mind 
to wish it would pour rain. No, I wont ! I am 
not quite such a beast as that, anyhow ! Oh 
■dear, how hot it is ! I wish — no! no! I don't 
wish anything. Dear me ! I was just going to 
wish I was in a snow-bank ! Now, I wont make 
another foolish wish ; not one ! And as I can't 
go to the party such a guy, I '11 just think, as 
hard as ever I can, of real sensible things. What 
a lot of things I can have between now and sunset ! 

I 11 begin with a bicycle. I always wanted one. 
I wish for the best bicycle in the world ! " he cried 
aloud, adding, in another moment, " Oh ! oh ! the 
beauty ! the perfect beauty ! Oh, it looks like 
fairy-land ! " 

And it did. The wheels were a net-work of 
glistening bars like silver threads, the seat shone 
like a mirror, the handle and delicate wood-work 
were picked out in golden ornaments. Tinkey 
forgot the party, forgot his bald head, his big 
shoes, and vanished pants in the delight of this 
new treasure. He was sure he could ride it, for 
he had watched others, and knew exactly how it was 
done. Hop ! hop ! hop ! and up ! One leg thrown 
over the seat, and down came Tinkey, bicycle and 
all, with a crash that made him sure every bone 
in his body was broken. Vigorous rubbing con- 
vinced him that he was only bruised, and the 
bicycle was found to be uninjured. Up again ! 
Alas ! down again, as well ! But a boy will work 
to conquer a bicycle as he never would to solve a 
problem in algebra, and at last Tinkey was actually 
up, balanced, and moved forward about ten inches. 
Then a new difficulty arose, and he proved that 
a thick grove of trees is the worst of all places in 
which to ride a bicycle. Every other turn of the 
wheels he upset ; he banged his head on the tree- 
trunks ; he skinned his legs against the rough bark, 
until, weary of the fun, he pushed his treasure to 
one side, to be dragged home at leisure. But time 
had not waited for Tinkey's movements, and he 
suddenly discovered by the lengthening shadows 
that sunset was not far away. 

Sunset ! He would lose his fairy gift when the 
sun was gone. 

"Oh, what shall I wish for first?" he thought, 
sitting down upon a fallen tree-trunk. "I wonder 
if it is n't best to wish for a million dollars, and 
then I can buy everything I want. I don't believe 
I would get it. I wish for a dollar ! " he cried 
aloud, and felt in the palm of his hand a pressure 
of something round. There it lay, a bright silver 
dollar, shining as if it had just left the mint. 

"I do believe I can have them!" thought 
Tinkey, who had been rather scared at the magni- 
tude of his proposed wish, "but I must hurry up; 
the sun is certainly going down." He stood up 
and waved his arm aloft like an officer leading his 

"I wish for a million dollars !" he cried. In a 
second the great silver dollars rained down upon 
him, as if every leaf in the trees above his head 
had been turned into coin. They flew into his 
face, striking him with their sharp, metallic edges, 
bruising his cheeks, his nose, his eyes ; they piled 
up around him, each one hitting a blow as it fell. 
His feet were prisoned fast, his legs, his knees; he 

i88 3 .j 




was being banked up in a silver prison, and yet 
the air was full of this novel hail-storm. 

" Oh, I shall be smothered, buried alive ! " cried 
poor, frightened Tinkey, trying vainly to run away, 
and thrashing out his arms in every direction, as 

he tried to beat back the stinging, bruising pieces 
of coin, that were threatening to cover him entirely. 

"Oh, what shall I do? Stop! I wish you to 
stop ! I shall be killed ! " 

Then he heard a mocking little laugh, and on 
one silver dollar that balanced itself in the air, just 
before his eyes, he saw the fairy herself, laughing 
at his dismay. 

" Stop ! " she cried, moving her crutch, and the 
dollars settled down upon the trees, the bushes, 
the grass ; on Tinkey's shoulders, on his cap, and 
on the pile in which he already stood waist-deep. 

"So you don't want a million dollars?" she 
said. " I can't find out what you do want ! I give 
you everything you wish for and still you are not 
satisfied ! " 

She sat down on the dollar that rocked gently in 
the air. 

" There is nothing like a million dollars here 
yet," she said, " but you can have what is wanting 
to complete that sum in one minute." 

"No! no!" cried Tinkey, seeing the crutch 
lifted. ' ' What is the use of a million dollars if you 
are buried alive in them ? I wish you would go 
away, and let me alone ! " he burst out, in an 
angry sob. The fairy leaned forward and gave 
him one smart blow with her crutch, right on the 
tip of the nose. It was such a dreadful blow — for 
she was very angry — that Tinkey, for a moment, 
lost all consciousness. 

When he recovered his senses he was lying 
under the apple tree, but the sun was hidden be- 
hind thick clouds, the wind was blowing a gale, 
scattering the half-ripe apples upon the ground, 
and threatening rain so decidedly that even lazy 
Tinkey was roused to running quickly until he 
was safely in-doors again. 






By Margaret Johnson. 

Said January to June : 
" Pray, let us walk together. 
The birds are all in tune, 
And sunny is the weather. 

" And look you : I will show, 
Before the long day closes, 
A pretty sight I know, 

Worth all your summer 

Then, as they went, the air 
Grew thick with snow-flakes 
But all the roses fair 

Hung down their heads, 

Cried June, in sorrow : "Nay, 

We ma) r not walk together. 

You 've turned my skies to 


And spoiled my golden 


Go now, I pray you, go, 
Before my last bud closes. 

Take you your cold white snow, 
And give me back my roses ! " 

i88 3 .J 




By E. S. Brooks. 


By high noon all were disembarked, and for 
the four days following Calais blazed with all 
the semi-splendors of a dress rehearsal. Every 
available foot of ground around the old city was 
taken up for lodgings. Tents and huts and tem- 
porary booths encircled the walls until, as Rauf 
said, " it might almost be the time of great King 
Edward over again." 

" And how ? " queried Margery. 

" Why, so Master Bolton tells me," explained 
Rauf, " when good King Edward besieged Calais, 
now nigh two hundred years ago, he built all 
around its walls, much as we have done, houses 
and dwelling-places, and encompassed it round 
about with a new town, in the which he vowed to 
live until Calais should be starved out." 

" Our Lady grant that we may not be starved 
out, though," protested Margery, whom the breezes 
of the Surrey hills had blessed with a healthy 

" Nay, before we shall starve," said valorous 
Rauf, " I will, as did King Edward, single out six 
notable burghers of this town, and hold them as 
hostages for your tortured appetite." 

"And I," said gay young Margery, "like the 
good Queen Philippa, will down on my knees before 
my lord and beg him to spare the honest burghers' 

" Which I will gladly do," retorted Rauf, "pro- 
vided my lady will ask their lives of me, as also 
did the good Queen Philippa, for the sake of the 
Son of the Blessed Mary and for your love of me ! " 
and then they both looked a little sheepish and 
quickly turned to watch the brilliant passing of 
Sir Henry Marney and the King's guard. 

" A rare and gallant sight, are they not, Mar- 
gery ? " said enthusiastic Rauf. 

And a rare and gallant sight, in truth, were 
these archers of the King's guard: " two hundred 
of the tallest and most elect persons, with doublets, 
hosen, and caps," as the old record states, their 
red coats rich with " goldsmiths' work and the 
King's cognizance," the Tudor rose in broidered 
gold shining on breast and back, their long-bows 
of finest English yew slung at the shoulder, and 
their velvet quivers filled with cloth-yard shafts 
tipped with brightest feathers. 

For four days Rauf and Margery enjoyed the 
restless life at Calais, frequently meeting as the 
Queen's household and the King's retinue mingled 
in the work of preparation ; and then, on Monday, 
the 4th of June, all being ready for the cere- 
mony of the interview, the whole court moved to 
the appointed ground before the Castle of Guisnes. 

A long train of moving color, the royal cortege 
wound across the low, flat plain known as the 
marches of Calais — the border-land between Eng- 
lish and French territory. Everywhere brilliant 
costumes and gorgeous trappings met the eye: 
the glitter of gold, the flash of silver or of bur- 
nished steel, the dazzle of jewels, and the wave of 
countless plumes. With lords and ladies superbly 
mounted ; with high officials and their trains, gay 
in suits of velvet and gold ; with priests and prelates 
richly gowned ; with grooms and yeomen, guards 
and litter-men, henchmen and footmen in liveries 
of scarlet and russet velvet, white and yellow satin, 
Milan bonnets, and cloth of gold ; with Flemish 
horses, adorned with velvet liveries ; with coursers 
and palfreys gayly caparisoned ; with hooded fal- 
cons and hounds in leash, the flower of England's 
nobility, following their King and Queen, swept on 
toward the grand lodgings that had been prepared 
for them on the barren fields of Guisnes. 

" Prepare yourself for a wondrous sight, Rauf," 
said his uncle, riding up to the boy as he cantered 
by the side of the litter in which rode Lady Gray 
and Margery. " Lord Dorset tells me that so 
mighty a work has been done by the artificers and 
pioneers, that there is nothing in Rome or Venice 
to equal the sight." 

Just then they gained the crest of an unwooded 
ridge, and an exclamation of delighted surprise 
sprang to the lips of young and old as they looked 
upon the scene spread out before them. To their 
right lay the once shabby little town of Guisnes, 
now royally resplendent with banners and pennons, 
colored hangings and cloth of gold, its castle so 
repaired and refitted as to make it almost habit- 
able, and certainly picturesque. But, most mar- 
velous of all, there rose, upon the castle green, 
the triumph of the architect and the decorator, the 
wonder of an age which brought to the decorative 
art the enthusiasm of religion and the luxuriance 
of an uncurbed fancy. 

Imagine a grand palace of stone and brick and 
wood, its outer walls covered with gayly painted 
cloth — a palace larger than the New York Post- 




office, more nearly the size, perhaps, of Memorial 
Hall, in Fairmount Park, Philadelphia — its roof 
bright with gilding, painted in antique pattern. 
On every side projected oriel (or bay) windows 
and curious glazed towers, called cleresteries, their 
posts and mullions thickly overlaid with gold. 
Great castled gates guarded the entrance, their 
niches filled with gilded statues of warriors and 
heroes, and, flanking these, rose an embattled 
tower, pierced with loop-holes and flying the royal 
arms. From this warlike entrance there rose, in 
gradual ascent to the embowered portals of the 
palace, a wide walk, or " hall-pace," lined with 
"images of sore and terrible countenances," 
gleaming in silvered armor. Over all streamed 
the royal flags — the red dragon of Cadwallon, the 
collared greyhound, the white swan, and the 
crimson cross of St. George mingling with the 
golden blazonings of the Tudor badge of the rose, 
"large and stately," in every conceivable device. 
Grouped around and beyond this royal lodging 
the sun gleamed on the white canvas of near two 
thousand eight hundred tents, gay with the flags, 
the decorations, arms, and " cognizance " of their 
lordly occupants. On the palace lawn a great gilt 
fountain, running three ceaseless streams of claret, 
spiced wine, and water, freely quenched the thirst 
of all comers, while, facing it, four golden lions 
upheld, on a pillar wreathed with gold, a blind 
Cupid armed with bow and arrows. 

The royal cortege swept down the grassy slope, 
the embattled gates swung open wide, and, amid 
the blare of trumpets and the boom of welcoming 
artillery, Henry the Eighth and his court entered 
into fairy-land. 

And fairy-land indeed did Rauf and Margery 
find it as, day after day, they wandered through 
the marvelous structure, finding ever some new 
magnificence of decoration, some gilded mystery 
of rebus or device. They strolled through pas- 
sages ceiled with white silk and hung with silks 
and tapestries and braided cloths, " which showed 
like bullions of fine burnished gold"; they lingered 
in chambers and state apartments decorated with 
panels rich in gold and carving, their ceilings 
studded with roses frescoed on a field of fine gold ; 
they tested the luxuriance of the chairs and divans 
of rare Turkish work covered with golden tissue 
and rich embroidery, and looked with admiring 
eyes upon the hangings of silken tapestries and cloth 
of gold, " of great and marvelous splendor." The 
children's eyes, indeed, often wearied of the display, 
and they were not sorry to rest, now and then, 
from all this magnificence, in the dim corridors of 
the "winding alley covered with verdure" that 
connected the palace with the old Castle of Guisnes. 

"It is more wondrous even than the golden 

palaces of Morgan le Fay and Queen Cinderella, 
of which my nurse tells," said Margery, during one 
of these resting spells. 

" Never was fairy-palace grander. Never was 
such magnificence," replied the sight-tired Rauf. 
" Why, even the poorest quarter of it is a habita- 
tion fit for a prince." 

On the afternoon of their first day at Guisnes, 
they stood, as part of a courtly company, while 
through the embattled gate-way passed, surrounded 
by a gallant retinue of guards and gentlemen su- 
perbly dressed, the one man who was the origina- 
tor and the director of all this magnificence — 
Thomas Wolsey the Cardinal, Lord Chancellor 
of England and Legate of the Pope. Mounted 
upon a barbed mule, whose trappings were of crim- 
son velvet, whose headstall and studs, buckles and 
stirrups, were of pure gold, rode the Lord Cardinal 
— a heavily built man, now nearly fifty years of 
age, impressive in appearance, handsome in face, 
eloquent in speech, whose years of power had 
brought with them an imperious and autocratic 
manner that displeased his equals, but held the 
people in awe. He was magnificently dressed in 
a robe of crimson velvet heavily figured, over 
which was drawn a loose vest or " rochet " of the 
finest lace, and on his head he wore the red cap 
of a cardinal, with large hanging tassels. As his 
brilliant retinue, in their rich costumes of scarlet 
or crimson velvet and cloth of gold, passed down 
between the fluttering tents, escorting the Cardinal 
to the French camp to announce the arrival of 
England's royalty, Rauf, gazing in admiration at 
the splendid and imposing scene, said to Margery: 

" It looks like a great field of gold, does it not, 
Margery ? " 

" Say rather of cloth of gold," said delighted 
Margery, as, with her girlish love of finery and 
perception of detail, she watched the glittering 

The quick ear of the King caught the comments 
of the children. 

" Well said, well said, little ones," he broke in, 
enthusiastically. " What say you, my lords," he 
continued, turning to his retinue, "shall we not 
take advisement from the words of these young- 
lings ? Let us know this ground hereafter as the 
Field of the Cloth of Gold ! " 

And the " Field of the Cloth of Gold " it has 
remained in history to this day. 

" Well, what about the French camp, Roger?" 
asked Rauf that evening, as he met Roger Adam- 
son, formerly falconer at Yerney Hall, but now an 
archer of the King's guard. 

Roger put down the silver cup of spiced wine 
with which he was refreshing himself at the golden 

i88 3 .; 



"Ah," he said, "a rare sight it was, Master 
Rauf ; though, truth to say, I was feasted so plen- 
teously that I fear I shall never know an appetite 
again. Two bow-shots from the French camp, 
which stands across a beggarly little stream, there 
met us a gallant company of lords and gentlemen 
and men-at-arms, bravely arrayed. We marched 
through their files until, after the Lord Cardinal 
had passed, they too joined their ranks to ours, 
and so on to the French camp." 

" Are the French lodged as royally as we, 
Roger ? " asked Rauf. 

"Ay, fully so, though in different guise. Their 
camp takes in both the town and castle of Aide, 
royally fitted, and between the castle and the 
little stream I spoke of there are nigh five hun- 
dred tents, very rich, and covered with bright 
stuffs, and flags, and devices, and cloth of gold." 

"And the King's house ? " 

" The French King's mightiness is lodged both 
in the castle and in a great pavilion, which is one 
central tent with three lesser ones joined to it. 
They are hung with cloth of gold from crown to 
base, and on the peak of the center pavilion is a 
statue of St. Michael, of great height and magnifi- 
cence, and all of gold, saving a rich blue mantle 
powdered with golden fleur-de-lis. In his right 
hand the image holds a dart, and in his left a 
mighty shield bearing the arms of France, and all 
so glistering with gold that one may scarcely look 
on it." 

" Well — go on, go on ! " said impatient Rauf, 
as the archer paused a moment. 

" Give me breath, give me breath, Master 
Rauf," pleaded the good-natured archer. " Well, 
when we reached the gates of the King's lodging, 
we passed through long files of princes and gentle- 
men, archers and Swiss halberdiers, all brave in 
splendid liveries, and then, lo, there comes out to 
us the French King, bonnet in hand, to greet my 
Lord Cardinal." 

" Bonnet in hand?" queried Rauf, incredulously. 

"Ay, bonnet in hand, said 1," protested the 
archer; "bonnet in hand comes the French King 
to welcome our King's Chancellor. And the 
trumpets and the hautboys and the clarions 
sounded out melodiously, while the artillery 
boomed such a welcome you could scarce hear 
aught else. Then, when my Lord Cardinal's 
Grace had dismounted, the French King embraced 
him joyfully, and they went with the lords and 
princes into the King's pavilion, while, as for me 
— well, Master Rauf, I was laid hold upon one 
side by a French archer, and on the other by a 
Swiss halberd-man, and though we could fathom 
naught of each other's lingo, why, we could feast 
together, and that we did so well and royally 

that here am I back again in camp, with but little 
stomach, I can tell you, for salted meat and strong 
beer again." 

"And I am to go with the King's train, in two 
days' space, so I too can make test of this hospi- 
tality," said Rauf, with glowing anticipations. 

The next day witnessed the return visit of the 
"harbingers," or envoys of the French King, 
many lords and princes " dressed in cloth of gold 
and well accoutered." Among them rode the Arch- 
bishop of Sens, Bonnivet, Admiral of France, and 
the Lord Chamberlain, the Sieur Tremouille. 
They were received with great display, with music 
and artillery and feasting, and then, on Thursday, 
the 7th of June, came the great event so long 
looked forward to — the formal meeting between 
the Kings. 

" Oh, if I could but go ! " sighed Margery, as she 
watched the elaborate preparations for the interview. 

" Would that you might go, Margery," said 
Rauf, pondering. "If, now, I could but strangle 
one of my brother pages and put you in his 
place ! There 's young Sir Hubert Darrell, for 
instance. He 's an uncomfortable little comrade, 
and, if I could only buy him off with a meal of 
pippins and wine as big as his appetite, and 
smuggle you into his suit of silver brocade and 
crimson velvet — why, off we would go together to 
the interview. You would look charming in crim- 
son and silver." 

" St. Frideswide forbid ! " exclaimed the scan- 
dalized Margery. " When I go to a maskalyne, 
Master Rauf Bulney, I will go honestly and not in 
boy's apparel. Suppose they should surprise me in 
Sir Hubert's brocade and velvet! Then would I 
be burned like that La Pucelle or Joan of Arc 
they tell us of, who essayed the same. My faith, 
I have no liking for so hot a fire ! No, no, Rauf, 
my day will come when the Queen's Ladyship 
meets the French Queen." 

" Yes, I suppose it is not to be thought of," said 
the boy, ruefully, loath to give up his brilliant plan. 
"But what a pity you are not a boy, Margery — 
why, no, it's not, though," he changed suddenly. 
"I'd far rather have you as you are — what old 
Ralegh, our minstrel, sings : 

' A mayden fayre, 
With sonnie hair, 
All garmented with light'; 

and never mind — I shall tell you all about it when 
I return, and that will be just as jolly." 

Later in the afternoon, some two hours before 
the time of vespers, a gallant train awaited before 
the palace gates the signal for the interview. 

Boom ! went the English culverin from the 
Castle of Guisnes. 

1 7 6 



Boom ! responded the great French falcon* from 
the Castle of Arde; and before the echoes died 
away from the intervening hills, Rauf had taken 
his place in the royal train, and, the English foot- 
men, step for step, solidly leading the way, the 
glittering company moved on toward the pavilion 
in the Val Dore. Preceded by his archers of the 
guard, in doublets of crimson and scarlet cloaks 
blazoned with the Tudor rose, with nobles and 
prelates, knights and gentlemen, pages and guards, 
in richest attire of velvets and damasks and cloth 
of gold, rode King Henry of England, imposing 
in appearance and royal in mien. He was dressed 
in a magnificent suit of silver damask, thickly 
ribbed with cloth of gold, his bonnet studded with 
jewels and topped with waving plumes. The trap- 
pings of his horse were of velvet and cloth of gold, 
thickly overlaid with fine gold and mosaic work. 
Before him rode the old Marquis of Dorset, bear- 
ing the sword of state, and behind him came nine 
henchmen in cloth of tissue, their horses bright 
with gold-scaled harness. On the crest of a small 
hill, overlooking the valley where stood the pa- 
vilion, the English retinue halted and saluted, with 
the blare of trumpets and the dip of banners, the 
French resting on the opposite hill. 

Tarra-tarra-tarra-ta ! sounded the trumpet-blast, 
and down the hills on either side swept the French 
and English provost-marshals to clear the ground, 
crowding the great masses of people back upon 
the surrounding hills. Rauf, close in attendance 
on the King, saw the looks of anxiety and distrust 
on the faces of some of the English lords as they 
noted the superior numbers of the French retinue. 

" Sire," hastily broke in the impetuous Lord 
Abergavenny, pressing close to the King, "you be 
my king and sovereign, wherefore, above all, I am 
bound to show you the truth and to stay for no 
one. Look ye to the French party! I know them 
— I have been among them. They are more in 
number — ay, double so many as be your Grace's 

" Sire," counseled the more discerning Earl of 
Shrewsbury, " whatever my lord of Abergavenny 
sayeth, I myself have been there too, and, mark 
me, the Frenchmen be more in fear of you and 
your subjects than your subjects be of them. 
Wherefore, if I were worthy to give counsel, your 
Grace should march forward." 

"So we intend, my lord," said the intrepid 
Henry. "Trumpeter, sound the advance !" and 
following the trumpet-call came the old-time " For- 
ward, march ! " the " On afore, my masters ! " from 
the officers of arms, while, in close array, the 
whole company passed on to the position assigned 
them, midway down the slope. 

There was a brief silence — the stillness of ex- 

* Falcon — an ancient form of cannon. 

pectation — while two nations, long divided, 
watched and waited. From the pavilion in the 
valley below, gleaming with its rich covering of 
cloth of gold, streamed the companion flags of 
France and England. There was a stir, a parting 
of ranks, and forth from the array of dazzling color, 
of waving plumes and banners, of scarlet and cloth 
of gold, down either hill-slope, amid the shouts of 
spectators and the burst of martial music, "so 
that there never was such joy," rode the English 
Henry and the French Francis. Suddenly each 
monarch gave his horse the spur and galloped 
toward the other, "like two combatants about 
to engage, but instead of putting their hands to 
their swords, each put his hand to his bonnet." 
With uncovered heads and courteous salutations, 
still on horseback, they closed in an embrace of 
welcome ; dismounting, they embraced again, and 
threw their jeweled bridles to their masters of the 
horse. Then, arm in arm, the two sovereigns 
entered the gilded pavilion ; the people cheered, 
"the trumpets and other instruments sounded on 
each side, so that it seemed a paradise," the Lord 
Cardinal and Bonnivet, Admiral of France, fol- 
lowed their lieges through the portals of the 
pavilion ; with hearty and repeated salutations of 
"Bons amys, Francoys et Angloys ! "f the two 
companies intermingled, and the great event, so 
long anticipated, was an accomplished fact. 

Our friend Rauf, enthusiastic in his delight 
at being really a part of all this grand and 
gracious display, walked gayly among the mingled 
ranks and aired his broken French with an 
impartial and reckless sincerity. 

" And what think you they talk of in the 
pavilion, Uncle ? " he asked, as with boyish curi- 
osity he glanced toward the curtained entrance 
of the tent, now closely guarded by archers and 

"Of more than you can fathom, my boy," 
answered Sir Rauf. " Of treaties and alliances, 
of possible wars and possible marriages ; for 
there is some talk afloat of a betrothal between 
our little Princess Mary and the Dauphin of 

"A marriage?" echoed incredulous Rauf. 
"Why, Uncle" — thinking tenderly of Margery — 
" they are but children; the Princess Mary is but 
a baby, and the Dauphin surely not much older." 

" The bethrothal of two nations, my boy, is, as 
you will learn in time, of more moment than the 
ages of two children. But trust our King's high- 
ness," continued his uncle. "He whom the King 
of the Romans seeks and the King of France sues, 
will not pledge faith and friendship without careful 

And Sir Rauf was right. For after nigh twenty 

t "Good friends, French and English." 

i88 3 .J 













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days of comradeship, of feasting and of pageantry, As, a half-hour later, Kauf waited in ready 

the King of France knew no more of the real attendance upon King Henry, his sturdy boyhood 

intentions of Henry of England than he did before seemed to have taken the fancy of the French King, 

the meeting of the Kings in the pavilion of the for, turning to his brother prince, Francis said, 

golden valley. with that easy grace and pleasant manner that 

* This picture is copied by permission from the stained-glass window designed by M. Oudinot, of Paris, for the house of 

Mr. W. K. Vanderbilt, in New York City. 

Vol. X.— 12. 

1 7 8 



won so many to him: "My dear brother and 
cousin, lend me, I pray you, yon courtly young 
squire, that I may show our demoiselles of France 
a worthy sample of your English lads. I will 
return him, well and suitably accompanied, before 
noon to-morrow." 

"Why, take him thus, fair cousin," responded 


Henry, heartily, ''and may his manners prove 
more to your liking than can his halting French. 
Comport yourself as though you were hostage for 
England's youth. Sir Page," he said to Rauf, 
" and shame not the teaching of your English 
tutor, nor your English home." 

So Rauf went to the Castle of Arde in the train 
of the French King, and, on the following day, 
after his return from his visit, he regaled Margery 

curiosity with certain sly references to the beauty 
and graciousness of the French maidens. 

" But what manner of man is the great King of 
France, Rauf? " she asked. 

" Oh, a right royal prince," responded the boy, 
enthusiastically. " As page of honor, I rode close 
to his stirrup on the way to Arde, and he oft 
questioned me about my home, and my duties, and 
my pets, and — O Margery, he told me how to 
snare a rabbit after the French fashion, and how to 
hood a lanard, wild to fly ! " 

"Well, never mind that, Rauf — how did he 
look, what did he do, what did he wear?" asked 
Margery, more interested in fashions than fal- 

" Oh, I studied him well, believe me, for I knew 
you would question me. He is tall and well-built, 
but not so stout as our gracious King; broad in 
the shoulders and large in the feet, with a brown 
face and short, dark beard, long nose and bright 
blue eyes ; haughty, but pleasant ; gay and gra- 
cious, and, withal, a smile and a voice that make 
you feel as if you must do as he desires, willy-nilly. 
And then — O Margery — his dress ! " 

"Finer than our King's, Rauf?" asked the 

" Well," said cautious Rauf, halting between 
loyalty and admiration, " not less glorious, be- 
lieve me. Over a cassock of gold frieze he wore a 
splendid mantle of cloth of gold, wonderfully fine 
in texture and sprinkled with jewels. The front 


and sleeves were studded with diamonds, rubies, 
emeralds, and large hanging pearls, while his 
velvet bonnet was set with precious stones and 
with the story of what he had seen, and piqued her capped with gallant plumes. Before him marched 

1 Another stained-glass window, designed by M. Oudinot for the house of Mr. W. K. Vanderbiit, is made up of the four decorations 

copied in the drawings on these two pages. 

i88 3 .; 



the Constable of Bourbon, bearing a naked sword, 
and, also, his master of the horse with the state 
sword of France, powdered with gold fleur-de-lis ; 


and at rear and van marched a great company of 
princes and lords and gentlemen, with archers and 
men-at-arms, more grandly dressed than I can say." 

" And what did you at the camp, Rauf ? " 

"Oh, I was most graciously received and 
royally lodged. The great pavilion of the King is 
more goodly to see than I can describe. It is as 
high as a tower, of wonderful breadth ; outside, 
all cloth of gold, and, inside, cloth of gold frieze. 
The hangings, too, and the furnishings are most 
marvelous, and the ceiling is like to the blue sky, 
full of golden stars and all the signs and devices 
of the heavens." 

"Well — what more?" as Rauf paused for 

" Oh, but give me time to think, Margery. 
Well, after the feast came a wonderful maskalyne, 
with the French lords in all manner of curious 
and mirthful costumes, and the dames and demoi- 
selles — the last in especial — beautiful beyond 

"Oh, Rauf!" 

"Ah — ah! for French maidens, I mean. 
There was not one, of course, in all the French 
camp to go before the fair maid of Surrey — 

sweeter than the sweet whitethorn blossom on her 
banks of Thames," said the gallant Rauf. 

"The blessed St. Valentine spare us," cried 
Margery, lifting her pretty arms in mock protest. 
" If this comes of your French visiting, Master 
Page, the more you stay at home the better 
for quiet English maids." 

" But she seemed to like it, nevertheless," 
thought Rauf; for compliments have been just 



as sweet to hear, and maids have been just as 
protestingly pleased to listen, through all the six 
thousand years of this gray old world's pilgrimage. 

(To be continued.) 





By Katharine Kameron. 

Miss Thankful White's "keeping-room " was 
as prim and proper as herself. Hetty Williams 
glanced about her, as she knitted briskly. Long 
practice had made this easy to her. The chairs 
stood stiff and straight against the wall in rows. 
The ancient sofa held itself severely erect, while 
its long lines of shining nail-heads made her arms 
ache to look at them. She had polished their bright 
brass every day of her life, as long back as she 
could remember. The square-figured carpet was 
speckless, even the feathery asparagus that filled 
the fire-place never dropped a grain. The great 
pink-lined shells on the high chimney-shelf, and 
the scraggy coral branch, had stood in the same 
places always, and the tall bunch of peacock's 
feathers, with their gorgeous colors and round eyes, 
nodding over the whole, were worst of all — " They 
stare so," she said softly under her breath. The 
dismal green curtains were down, to keep the sun 
from fading the carpet, but the summer wind 
fanned them in and out, and brought to Hetty 
bright flashes of golden-rod along the road-side, 
and the sweet scent of the buckwheat and the 
drone of the bees above its white blossoms. The 
door to the kitchen was closed. Miss Thankful 
had a visitor, and was enjoying a good gossip. 

" Take your knittin', Hetty, and run into the 
keepin'-room, and shut the door after you,'" were 
Miss Thankful's instructions, when Widow Basset 

had seated herself comfortably in the flag-bottomed 
rocker. The session was longer than usual, and 
Hetty grew desperate. 

"Miss Thankful," said she, clicking the latch, 
and putting her small head into the kitchen, "may 
I take my knittin' out under the big tree in the 
orchard ? " 

"I 'd jest as lief 's not," was the answer, " if 
only you don't get to witchin' and forget your work. 
The mittens must be done afore Sat'day night, you 

For a while the needles flashed in and out, the 
mitten grew longer, and the work went on steadily 
and quietly, as if Hetty had been one of the newly 
patented knitting-machines. The sunshine made 
shadow pictures on the grass, the leaves over her 
head rustled pleasantly, and the leaves at her feet 
waved silently in a tangle of light and shade. The 
bees went humming by, and the butterflies brushed 
her face, but still the little maid worked faithfully 
at her-task. The last mitten was nearly finished. 

Presently the sudden sound of chattering voices 
and merry laughing caused her to look up in sur- 
prise. Three little girls were coming toward her, 
and one of them said, quite politely : 

" We saw you here, and thought it looked such 
a nice shady place for our dolls' picnic. Should you 
mind if we staid with you to play ? " 

"I should be very glad, indeed," answered Hetty, 

i88 3 -] 



heartily ; but she scarcely looked at her little vis- 
itors — her eyes were fixed on the dolls which two 
of them carried. Hetty had a rag-doll of her own 
make, hidden away in a box under her bed, and it 
was one of her most precious possessions. She 
had seen prettier ones at the store, and had long 
dreamed of saving pennies to buy one — but these 
dolls ! these were so unlike anything she had ever 
seen or imagined, that they ''took away her breath," 
she said. They had dainty waxen faces, with cheeks 
like rose-leaves, and great blue eyes with dark, 
silky lashes, and real golden hair, wavy and long. 
"They must be meant for dolls' angels," she 
thought, but said not a word. Hetty was not given 
to speaking her mind, Miss Thankful White's motto 
being : " Little girls must be seen, but not heard." 
While she stood lost in admiring wonder, the lit- 
tle strangers, with a busy chatter, set about prepar- 
ing their picnic. Before long, Hetty knew that they 
lived in Boston, and that they, with their mamma, 

Presently Hetty said, thoughtfully : " I guess lit- 
tle girls are heard in Boston." 

They looked at her a minute in surprise, and then 
one answered : 

" Why, yes, of course ; are n't they in Patchook? " 

"Miss Thankful says they should only be seen," 
was the reply. 

"Who is Miss Thankful?" 

" Why, she 's Miss Thankful White ; and I live 
with her." 

" Is she your aunt ? " 

" No ; she 's the one who took me to bring up, 
when Mother died — to help 'round, and save her 
steps, and do the house chores." Hetty made this 
long speech quite rapidly, as if she had heard it, 
or said it, so often that she knew it by heart, and 
then she fell to knitting busily. 

Her little playmates looked at her and at one 
another, but did not answer. This was a kind of 
life they knew nothing about. They could not 



were boarding at the Maplewood Farm, near by, 
for the summer ; that two of them were sisters, and 
one a cousin. All this; and much more, was told 
to their new neighbor. 

imagine a little girl without a papa and mamma, 
auntie and cousins, plenty of toys and playtime, 
and lots of laughing and talking. 

Soon one of them, with a bright thought, said 




quickly : '' Would you like to hold my dolly, while 
I help set the table ? " 

This was delightful. Hetty dropped her mitten, 
and taking the dainty creature gently in her arms, 


she lightly smoothed the long, soft dress of finest 
frills and laces. What a wonder of beauty ! Hetty 
sat silent and happy, stroking the golden hair and 
touching the little hands and pretty kid shoes. 

"Where did it come from ?" she asked at 

" Uncle Charley bought it for me at one of the 
Boston shops," answered the little owner, 
carelessly. A wax doll was nothing strange 
to her. » 

Then Hetty took up the other doll and 
compared them — "a brown-eyed beauty and 
a blue-eyed angel," she thought. 

Suddenly she heard Miss Thankful's voice 
calling: " Hetty, Hetty Williams ! Can'tyou 
see it 's near sundown ? How are the cows 
to get home if you don't spry up and start 
after 'em ? " 

Sure enough, the day was nearly done, 
and when the little strangers started for 
Maplewood Farm, long, spindling shadows, 
with long, spindling dolls in their arms, ran 
alongside of them. Hetty saw this, as she 
stopped to look back after them on her way 
to the house. 

Then off she trudged after Sukey and 
Jenny, but she passed by the flaming golden- 
rod, the purple asters, and the creamy buck- 
wheat without ever once seeing them. It was 
like walking in her sleep. Her eyes were 
open, but she saw nothing except the pretty 
doll-faces she was dreaming about. 

After the cows were home, and the milk in the 
bright pans, she finished the last mitten and bound 

it off in the fading light. Before she slipped into 
her little bed, she took her dear old rag doll from 
the box for one look. 

It was dreadful. She shut her eyes tight and 
put it back quickly out of sight. Those 
lovely doll angels ! She could not quite 
keep them out of her prayers, even. It 
took a long, long time for Hetty to go 
to sleep that night. Her restless head 
t i tossed from side to side. When, at last, 
. ;' it lay quite still, and she was fast asleep, 
it was still full of rosy dreams. Blue- 
eyed dollies, with pink faces and wavy 
hair, crowded about her pillow. 

The first beams of the morning sun- 
shine found Hetty standing in the mid- 
dle of the floor, with a brand-new idea 
caught tight and fast in her tangle of 
hair. Miss Thankful had not called her. 
She was not even stirring yet, and Hetty 
spoke aloud : 

" Miss Thankful will take the mittens 
to the store to-day — that makes six pair 
— and Mr. Dob- 
bins will send them 
to Boston. That 
is where the doll 
came from." 

In a minute more- 
Hetty had found a 


pencil and some scraps of paper, and was seated 
by the low window, busily writing. It was clearly 
something very important. She wrote one note and 



tore it up ; and then another and did the same ; the 
third time it seemed to suit her. Next, she folded 
it very small and flat ; then she took the new mit- 
tens from the drawer, and tucked the folded paper 
close up into the tip of the right hand. 

" Good mornin', Miss Thankful," said Mr. 
Dobbins ; " want to trade fur mittens agin, do ye? 
Well, that little girl o' yourn makes 'em 'mazin' 
spruce. None o' the knittin'-machines beat Hetty 
much. We kin get rid o' all ye kin fetch. A 
Boston man was in here yist'day and spoke fur 
a dozen pair. So help yerself, Miss Thankful ; 
got some extra fine cotton cloth, very cheap, and 
some hansum caliker as ever you see." 

Hetty was at the south door as the old chaise 
drove up, and took the parcels from Miss Thank- 
ful. She saw the mittens had not come back. 
"Gone to Boston," she whispered joyfully, as she 
turned into the house again. 

So they had — started that very day. They did 
not stay long in Boston, however. The city was 
full of western merchants, buying for the fall 
and winter. Among the rest, stacks of woolen 
gloves and mittens went off over the iron tracks, up 
into the great, cold north-west- 
ern country, where Jack Frost 
has jolly times playing his Rus- 
sian pranks, and nipping noses, 
ears, and fingers. 

Time went by, and winter came 
in dead earnest. Jack Frost en- 
joyed his rough jokes and found 
his way through all kinds of 
gloves. The clerks of a great 
store up in Minnesota were tired 
of saying to customers, "We are 
out of woolen mittens, sir — all 
gone long ago — not a woolen 
glove left in the house, sir." 

"Hello, Mike, what is this?" 
said a pleasant-faced young fel- 
low to one of the porters, as he 
drew out a packing-box from 
a dark corner in the cellar. 

" Shure an' I dun' no, sir. 
I 'mthinkin'it 's sumthin' that 's 
hid itself away, unbeknownst loike." 

" We '11 find out quickly," said the young man. 
Mike's hatchet went splintering and cracking 
through the dry wood till the cover flew off. 

" Wullun gloves ! Misther Tom, and it 's the 
lucky foind, sir. Shure the paaple '11 be twice 
gladder to have thim now, sir, than in the 
warrum wayther whin they cum, sir. " 

Tom laughed at Mike's sharp way of dodging 

the blame, and ordered them brought upstairs 
to be put on the counter at once. As he turned 
away, he took up the top pair. " First come, 
first served," he said; " these are my share. My 
old ones leak the cold everywhere." Sitting 
down by the glowing stove, he examined his prize 
at his leisure. "Good, thick, warm wool," said 
he. " No thin places ; honest work, first quality." 
By this time, two or three others had gathered 
around him, each with a pair of the new " find." 
When Tom tried the fit of his new gloves, his 
fingers touched something in the very tip of the 
right hand. Turning it wrong-side out, he found a 
carefully folded paper, like a note. Smoothing 
it out on his knee, he read it aloud : 

" My name is Hetty Williams. I am eight 
years old. I live in Patchook, Mass. I knit 
these mittens for Mr. Dobbins's store. I wish the 
gentleman who buys them would send me a wax 
doll. I have only a rag doll, and I want one with 
a wax face and blue eyes, and pink cheeks and 
real hair. I want her very much indeed." 

Hurrah for little Hetty ! " said Mr. Ton 

' she 



shall have her wax baby for Christmas-day." And 
then he fell into a brown study. The fact was, 
Tom had been born "away down East," and he 
had worked a while in a country store there. He 
knew in a minute just what Mr. Dobbins's store 
was like. He fairly smelt the soap, and fish, 
and coffee, and could see the calicoes, and dishes, 
and woolen socks, and gray mittens. It did not 
take long to think all this, and then he cried : 

1 84 



" Who wants to help get a stunning doll for little 
Hetty? I'm glad Mr. Dobbins sent her gloves 
along this way." 

The boys who did not get notes in their mittens 
tried to think that Hetty had knitted them all 
the same, and when Tom passed around his hat, 
the halves and quarters rattled in, then a trade- 
dollar thumped down, and a greenback or two 
fluttered in silently. Tom took the proceeds and 
went to the gayest toy-shop in town, and found 
a famous wax dolly. It was as big and as plump 
as a live baby, and much prettier, he thought. It 
had a long white frock, and shut its eyes properly 
when Tom laid it down to count out the money to 
pay for it. It did not take long to pack it snugly 
in a smooth box. Then Tom pasted Hetty's open 
letter on the cover. He went down himself with it 
to the express, and told the boys it must go free, 
and that every one might send a Merry Christmas 
to little Hetty till the lid was full of good wishes. 
I doubt if there ever was so much writing outside 
of one box. Every man who handled it seemed 
to think at once of some little sister or daughter 
or niece, and for her sake sent a greeting to the 
little girl in Patchook. 

The day before Christmas, Miss Thankful 
White's old chaise stopped at Mr. Dobbins's store 
and post-office, and that lad)', with Hetty to carry 
thc parcels, came up to the counter. 

" Cood mornin', Miss Thankful — wish ye 
Merry Christmas — fine frosty weather, this. Le ' 
me see : I think there 's a letter for your little gal, 
Hetty there — came this mornin'. Get it out. 

Hetty's eyes opened wider than ever before in 
her life. A letter for her ! What could it mean ? 
Mr. Dobbins must have made a mistake. But no, , 
the red-haired boy, Dan, read the address, and 
handed it straight to her. 

" Miss Hetty Williams, Patchook, Mass." 

Her first letter! She never thought of opening- 
it — she was too much astonished and too well 

" Sakes alive ! Hetty Williams, what be you 
standin' there for, like as if you was struck dumb? 
Why don't ye hev sense enough left to open that 
letter and find out su'thin' about it?" 

But as Hetty did not stir, Miss Thankful took it 
from her hand, removed her glasses, wiped 
them and put them on again, then carefully 
opened it and slowly read aloud : 

"There is a box for Hetty Williams, in the 
express office at Fitchtown. Will be kept till 

called for. This express does not .deliver in 

" Wall, to be sure ! Who kin it be from ? how 
kin we git it?" queried that lady, helplessly. 

" Why, bless ye, Miss Thankful, that 's as easy 
as rollin' off a log. My boy Dan is jest hitchin' 
up to go to Fitchtown express for some store 
goods. He '11 bring Hetty's box along with him, 
and glad tew." 

Just after early nightfall that day, Mr. Dob- 
bins's wagon rattled up to the south door. Miss 
Thankful and Hetty both rushed out to meet 
Dan, and it would be hard to say which was the 
spryer of the two. 

Miss Thankful took the box from Dan with 
many thanks, and carried it into the house, 
saying : 

" It 's rather big and hefty for you, Hetty ; " and 
then the good woman carefully pried off the cover 
with a claw-hammer and stove-lifter. The Christ- 
mas softness had, somehow, found its way to her 
heart, and so she quietly moved away to put up 
the "tools," and left Hetty to unfold the wrap- 
pings by herself and first see the sight, whatever 
it might be. 

Hetty, when Miss Thankful came back, sat as 
still as a statue, with folded hands, looking only 
at her treasure. Miss Thankful settled her spec- 
tacles, took one good look, and then exclaimed : 
"Wall, I never! This does beat all natur'. 
Where upon airth did it ever rain down from ? " 

Just then, her "specs" grew dim, and the old 
•lady took them off and wiped them well; then she 
continued : ' ' Deary me, deary me ! Well, I am 
right down glad- that the Lord's put it into some- 
un's heart to clap to and send that child a doll 
baby. I 'm sure I never should 'a' thought o'such 
a thing, if I 'd lived a thousand year, and yet 
how powerful happy the little creetur is over it, 
to be sure ! She looks like a pictur', kneelin' 
there by the box, with her eyes shinin' so bright 
and so still, just as if the doll baby was an angel, 
come down in its long white frock." 

I only wish Tom could have seen Hetty then, 
or afterward, when she sat by the bright wood- 
fire, looking with childish delight into the soft blue 
eves of her waxen darling. Or if he could have 
taken one look at the two heads on the pillow of 
the little attic bed, that night — both pair of eyes 
fast shut, and Hetty's small arm hugging her 
treasure tight and fast in her soundest sleep — he 
would then have known to a certainty that little 
Hetty Williams was to have at least one happy 

8 3 J 




By Alice Meynf.ll. 

[Many of the older boys and girls among our readers, who have seen in the print-shops beautiful engravings 
known as " The Roll-call," " Quatre Bras," " Balaclava," etc., and have heard of the fame of Elizabeth Thompson, 
the brilliant English girl who painted the original pictures, will be glad to read the following interesting sketch, 
written by her sister, Mrs. Meynell. For several of the illustrations to this article (the drawings on pages 190, 
191, 192, and 193, showing single-figure studies from some of the prominent English regiments) we are indebted 
to the artist herself, who drew them expressly for ST. NICHOLAS.] 

as I have been, to record the hap- 
py and successful early career of 
another, she will be ready, for the 
sake of a task so pleasant, to set 
aside the feelings of family diffi- 
dence, which might make her as 
modest in respect of her sister's 
fame as if it were her own. 

Short biographies of Mrs. Butler 
have been plentiful enough, and 
have vied with one another in in- 
correctness. Elizabeth Thompson 
(Mrs. Butler) was positively un- 
known to the great public when 
her "Roll-call" took the world by 
storm, and it was scarcely to be 
wondered at that the surprise at 
her success, joined to the common 
love of wonders, gave rise to many 
mistakes in regard to her past. 
One delusion it is well to put an 
end to at the outset — the opinion 
that her sudden success was not 
preceded by long and careful 
study. In fact, Mrs. Butler has 
been a worker at art from the age 
of five. 

Her father's system of instruc- 
tion consisted of reading aloud the 
things which he wished to instill 
into her mind, while she practiced 
drawing and sketching. He be- 
lieved that this kind of occupation 
on her part was no hinderance to 
mental attention, but that, on the 
contrary, the after-sight of the 
drawing produced during the read- 
ing of some passage of history 
would recall the events to which 
the little artist was listening while 
her pencil was at work. A little 
the end of each lesson was, of 
course, necessary to test whether the pursuit of 
art had or had not been too absorbing. Lln- 
doubtedly the success of this plan was mainly due 
to his own gentleness and patience. Upon the 

It is not altogether unusual for an artist's or an 
author's work to be the subject of a brother's com- 
ment in criticism or biography. Sons have written 
of their fathers; many a wife, has chronicled the 
labors of her husband ; and. if one sister is asked. 

questioning at 

1 86 



whole, the system was found to' work well, and it 
was no doubt persevered in because it enabled her 
father to give his two children more advanced in- 
struction than would have been possible without 
the constant comment and explanation which a 
reader is able to supply, better than any other 
teacher, to his hearers. He undertook the whole 
education of his daughters, giving up his time, 
and of course denying himself much that other- 
wise his cultivated nature would have enjoyed, for 
the sake of conscientiously fulfilling his self-im- 
posed task. A few words in commemoration may 
be permitted in this unavoidably personal little 
record, especially now that he is no longer here to 
forbid the acknowledgment of all that his cele- 
brated daughter owes to him. 

Born in 1 8 1 1 , in the West Indies, Elizabeth 
Thompson's father was early left an orphan, and 
was brought up in the care of his grandfather ; he 
was educated under private tuition and at Trinity 
College, Cambridge, which his delicate health, how- 
ever, caused him to leave before he had taken his 
degree. He married, for the first time, very early; 
lost his young wife after the birth of a son and 
daughter, and adopted a life of travel and of liter- 
ary and artistic interests, collecting pictures, study- 
ing by way of pleasure, and enjoying the society 
of which the late Lord Lytton, Charles Dickens, 
and D'Orsay were the principal stars. During this 
period he made a trip to America — rather an un- 
common thing in those days ; and it was a source 
of keen pleasure to him, not only at the time, but 
in the memories of his later life. 

Of my father's friendship with Charles Dickens 
little need be recorded here, except that it was 
close and unusually affectionate ; that he joined 
some of the amateur theatricals which the novel- 
ist so enthusiastically loved, and that it was Charles 
Dickens who introduced him to the lady who be- 
came his second wife and the mother of the battle- 
painter. Meeting, in Liverpool, a young girl who 
inspired him with an admiration attested by some 
of the most enthusiastic letters he ever wrote, 
Charles Dickens could not help coveting the prize 
on behalf of his friend. What he hoped for hap- 
pened, in effect, more quickly than he had antici- 
pated. He was the confidant of the engagement, 
the life of the wedding, and, with Mrs. Dickens, 
the companion of the closing month of a long 
wedding journey. His note of congratulation on 
the birth of the eldest daughter, Elizabeth, which 
event took place at Lausanne immediately after 
he had left the young couple in Switzerland, has 
been published in the third volume of " Dickens's 
Collected Letters." 

About seven or eight years later he met my par- 
ents again ; this time they were living, with their 

two little girls, within sight of the snow-capped 
peaks of the Appenines, in an old palace, the Villa 
de Franchi, immediately overlooking the Mediterra- 
nean, with olive-clad hills at the back ; on the left, 
the great promontory of Porto Fino ; on the right, 
the Bay of Genoa, some twelve miles away, and 
the long line of the Apennines sloping down into 
the sea. The palace garden descended, terrace 
by terrace, to the rocks, being, indeed, less a 
garden than what is called a villa in the Liguria, 
and a podere in Tuscany — a fascinating mixture 
of vine, olive, maize, flowers, and corn. A fount- 
ain in marble, lined with maiden-hair, played at 
the junction of each terraced flight of steps. A 
great billiard-room on the first floor, hung with 
Chinese designs, was Elizabeth Thompson's first 
school-room ; and there Charles Dickens, upon one 
of his Italian visits, burst in upon a lesson in multi- 
plication. It was the first and almost the only time 
I ever saw him. In dim remembrance, he abides as 
a noisy, very rosy, very energetic, and emphatically 
English personality, though his person itself isquite 
forgotten ; and the fact that nine times nine are 
eighty-one has remained in the girls' minds as one 
of the most unmistakable items of arithmetic, 
accompanied by the clap of hands and the cordial 
shout with which he proclaimed it. 

The two children never went to school, and 
had no other teacher than their father — except 
their mother for music, and the usual professors 
for " accomplishments " in later years. And 
whether living happily in their beautiful Genoese 
home, or farther north among the picturesque 
Italian lakes, or in Switzerland, or among the 
Kentish hop-gardens and the parks of Surrey (the 
family having a more than Bedaween fondness for 
liberty of movement), Elizabeth's one central 
occupation of drawing was never abandoned 
— literally not for a day. With it went a pecul- 
iar faculty of observation which her father 
fostered continually. On the family vetturino 
journeys to Florence, to Switzerland, and else- 
where the small artist's head was always out of 
the window, watching with a perfectly inexhaust- 
ible interest the changing of horses and the ever- 
varying humors of the road-side. In England, the 
subjects of study — and of very profitable study 
undoubtedly — were the action of the cricket-field 
and the labors of cart-horses in the hay-harvest. 
Assuredly the child was never idle, for her eyes 
were hard at work. The promise of her sketches 
had declared itself very early to eyes able to dis- 
criminate between what is significant and living in 
such elementary attempts, and what is only the 
common work of baby fingers. Both her parents 
were, in fact, artists ; her father having an alto- 
gether exceptional, though untaught, power in 


I8 7 

drawing heads, and her mother being a landscape- 
painter whose capacity Mr. Ruskin and the late 
Mr. Tom Taylor, among other critics, recognized 
with marked interest and admiration. Nor were 
the child's wise guides alarmed at what might have 
been considered as unfeminine in the subjects she 
chose — stampedes of wild horses, battles, and 
soldiers in various combinations. So strong a tend- 
ency, it was felt, had a meaning ; the love of 
horses especially seemed to point to a following of 
Rosa Bonheur; but happily Elizabeth Thompson, 
when in her early teens, abandoned the intention 
of being exclusively an animal painter. 

When the child was fifteen, it was resolved (the 
family being at that time in England) that the 
routine of art-training might begin without inter- 

After a winter of hard work came a three- 
years' sojourn at Bonchurch, in the Isle of Wight, 
where Elizabeth Thompson received instruction in 
water-color and landscape from a Mr. Gray, con- 
tinuing her own sketches from imagination and 
nature with ceaseless pleasure. Bonchurch is a 
pretty place, but Bonchurch life is hardly pictur- 
esque ; fortunately, horses arc everywhere, and are 
always good subjects, even though nothing rougher 
or more characteristic be at hand than carriage- 
horses, or the well-groomed mare of the family 

After still another visit abroad came a prolonged 
stay in London and another application, this time 
under new circumstances, for the national art- 
instruction at South Kensington. The head-master 


fering unduly with other studies; and my sister 
joined the South Kensington School of Design, 
but only for a session, the work proving too me- 
chanical to profit her much. A teacher of art- 
painting was therefore engaged, a Mr. Standish, 
and the young aspirant handled the brush fur the 
first time. 

there at the time was Mr. Richard Burchett, whose 
discrimination as a teacher and whose enlightened 
encouragement of the lady students (always under 
a disadvantage in Government schools) were of 
signal assistance to many a beginner. He knew 
how to dispense with routine .in a place of which 
routine was, apparently, the very life ; and to him 

* It is impossible to present within the limits of one page an adequate copy of " The Roll-call," as the required 
reduction would make the faces so small that their expression would be lost. We give a reduced outline of the 
entire picture, and on pages 188 and 1S9 show copies of some of its most interesting groups. 

All the reproductions here given from the picture of " The Roll-call" are made with the kind permission 
of the Fine Art Society, 148 New Bond street, London, owners of the copyright. The painting belongs to Her 
Majesty the Queen, and is now at Windsor Castle, but was in the possession of the Fine Art Society for some 
time, and was seen by nearly a quarter of a million people. The steel-plate engraving (from which our 
engravings are copied) was prepared by Mr. F. Stackpoole, A. R. A., at a cost of nearly ^2000 ($10,000); 
and after thirty-five hundred impressions had been taken off, the plate was destroyed, although in good con- 
dition, in order that the value of the engravings might not be lessened by the issue of inferior impressions. 




the new pupil's sketches were submitted, with the 
bold request that, if he saw fit, he would allow 
her to skip the room in which drawings of scroll- 
work were to be copied for a certain number of 
months, the room in which outlined flowers were 
to be reproduced, the room in which an egg was 
to be shaded, and that in which a chair was to be 
studied in perspective, and all the other prelimi- 
naries to the "antique" and the "life." The per- 
mission was readily granted, and Elizabeth Thomp- 
son became a pupil in figure-drawing. She never 
considered, however, that her course of study at 
South Kensington had done for her what it 
ought to have done in the time which she spent 
there, or that the system in force was personal 
or careful enough to develop individual power 
And it was between two long courses of study 
there that she enjoyed the summer in Florence 
and the winter in Rome to which she thought she 
owed almost all the solid success of after years. 

home, and in which her half-sister had married 
and remained. The following spring saw the 
family in a Florentine villa upon the road to 
Fiesole, within walk- ^ ing distance of the 
heart of Florence. Elizabeth Thomp- 
son at once entered the stu- 
dio of Profes- sor Bellucci. 


nent historical 
ime in Italy, 
utmost use of six 
cellent instruction, 
ered from him she 
was wont to say 
correcting a touch 


1868, she 
the cit\ 

the most emi- 
painter of his 
and made the 
months of his ex- 
What she gath- 
never lost, and she 
that his method of 

or an outline, and then asking her whether she 
had understood the motive of the correction, was 
worth more than a lecture on painting. Every- 
thing was personal, well-directed, and insistent 
— the very antithesis, in fact, of class teaching, 
where generalities are unavoidable. The stead- 
fast young student used to rise betimes, to 
breakfast alone before the rest of the family, 
and to walk down with a maid into the town, 
to the old paved street of Santa Reparata, 
where Signor Bellucci had his studio. On the 
days when she did not work with him, she copied 
passages from the frescoes in the cloisters of the 
Annunziata, masterpieces of Andrea del Sarto and 
Franciabigio. making a special study of the 
drapery of the last-named painter. The sacris- 
tans of the old church — the most popular church 
in Florence — knew and welcomed the young 
English girl, who sat for hours so intently at her 
work in the cloister, unheeding the com'ing and 
going of the long procession of congregations pass- 
ing through the gates. 

Her studies in the galleries were also full 
of delight and profit, though she made no other 
copies, and she was wont to say that of all 
the influences of the Florentine school which 
was painting in private at stood her in good stead in her after work, that 
which had been her early of Andrea del Sarto was the most valuable and 

<-k"ir FROM " i'HE ROLL-CALL. 



the most important. The intense heat of a mid- 
summer which, day after day, showed a hundred 
degrees Fahrenheit in the shade could not make 
her relax work, and her master, Florentine as he 
was, was obliged to beg her to spare him, at least 
for a week, if she would not spare herself. It was 
toward the end of October that artist and pupil 
parted, his confidence in her future being as un- 
bounded as her gratitude for his admirable skill 
and minute carefulness. During the following 
seven months, spent in Rome, no other teaching 
was sought besides the silent instruction of the 
great galleries. LInder the influences of the city, 
military subjects were put aside for the time, and 

thronged with "types" — Oriental and Occidental, 
Tartar and African and Mongolian ; while lan- 
guages, habits, and vestments were as various as 
the faces. The Council was still in session when 
the artist, with her family, went to London in the 
early summer. 

At this time Elizabeth Thompson, again a 
student at South Kensington, became a regular 
exhibitor at the Dudley Gallery and other water- 
color exhibitions. Military subjects had resumed 
their strong hold on her fancy ; and her drawings 
of cavalry in action, of recruits at drill, and kin- 
dred scenes gained so much appreciation that a 
leading critic adjudged her, to her own surprise, to 

be, in her higher 
studies of char- 
acter, a rival to 
Fortuny. Dur- 
ing her sojourn 
in Florence she 
had entered upon 
her profession in 
the formal man- 
ner which is 
marked by a first 
sale, and a few 
years previously 
she had been an 
occasional con- 
tributor to the 
Society of Lady 
Artists in Lon- 
don, but her 
regular ex- 
k hibition 


Elizabeth Thompson sketched the Romans of to- 
day, drew from the usual models, and achieved a 
religious picture — the " Visitation of the Blessed 
Virgin to St. Elizabeth" — which gained honorable 
mention at an ecclesiastical art exhibition opened 
by Pope Pius the Ninth in the cloisters of the Car- 
thusian monastery. In Rome, too, was studied from 
the life a scene of a Roman Sunday-school which 
the artist had been much interested in watching — 
the priests and children at catechism, the groups 
gathered together in different parts of the churches 
or cloisters, the demonstrative interest and empha- 
sis with which the monks pressed their theological 
dogmas into the boyish mind, and the evident 
good-will that inspired the little learners. Nor, 
fortunately for our artist and the public, was there 
any lack of other sketchable matter in Rome that 
season, the Vatican Council having assembled in 
December, and the churches and streets being 

career "»„■■''» v^vfe jlp'^ may be con- 

sidered as ^""^aESSEKH-J 5 "^ dating from 

the season of 1870. While, 

however, her military work was meeting with what 
promised to be a success, the Roman religious 
picture of which mention has been made under- 
went a more than usually rigorous fate at the 
hands of the Royal Academy, being not only re- 




jected, but displaying, when eventually recovered 
from the cellars of that institution, a ragged hole 
in the carefully painted evening sky large enough 
to give a glimpse of the sky of London through 
the canvas. The next picture, sent to the Acad- 
emy from the Isle of Wight, was rejected also, 
but came home without a hole ; the next year the 
young artist tried again — this time with a subject 
from the Franco-Prussian war, then of compara- 
tively recent interest. "Missing" was the title, 
and the picture commemorated one of those side- 
incidents of a campaign in which she believed 
that art might find a truer and more human 
interest than in the masses and generalities of a 
battle. Two French officers, old and young, both 


wounded and with one wounded horse between 
them, have lost their way after a disastrous defeat ; 
their names will appear in the sad roll as missing, 
and the manner of their death will never be 

known. The picture gained admittance to the 
Academy, to the artist's great pleasure, but was 
hung too high up, or, as it is technically termed, 
"skyed." During the same year she received 
her first commission, which came from one of the 
wealthy art-patrons of the great metropolis, and 
was accepted as a welcome encouragement and 
proof of appreciation. The subject was to be 
military ; and the artist resolved upon "The Roll- 
call." In sticking so resolutely to the painting of 
soldiers she abandoned several other branches of 
art in which she would probably have won dis- 
tinction : sacred history, romantic history, por- 
trait, landscape, or, as has been said, animal- 
painting, all lay well within her power, and had 
been practiced by her ; but she was aware not 
only that her own taste pointed decisively in 
another direction, but that there was a movement 
in her time which it would be wise to join. Mili- 
tary painting in France was, in this treatment of 
individual soldiers and of incidents of the battle- 
field rather than of battles and of masses of men, 
a new art, followed by brilliant votaries ; but in 
England the beginning had not been made. All 
artists in these days of numbers feel the great desir- 
ableness of some fresh field — if only such should 
be open to them. To Elizabeth Thompson this 
freshest of fields was manifestly open ; she was, 
by her long preparation, ready for the time, and 
the time was ready for her. The almost over- 
whelming success of " The Roll-call " owed some- 
thing of its completeness to this fortunate com- 
bination. A studio was taken in London for the 
production of the picture, and there the artist 
worked on several canvases in years to come. 

In the spring of 1874, "The Roll-call" was duly 
sent in to the Royal Academy, and was received 
with a cheer by the committee. By degrees 
tidings of its success were carried to the painter and 
her family ; there were unmistakable signs of a 
sensation in the town ; the clubs were full of 
rumors of a great picture by a woman ; scraps of 
talk about it were overheard in railway trains. And 
yet this preparation hardly broke the shock of sur- 
prise when, on the morning after the Academy 
banquet, the speeches of both the Prince of Wales 
and the Duke of Cambridge were found to refer in 
terms of generous praise to the work of the un- 
known girl. Such a compliment had seldom or 
never been paid to a new name, and it was the 
prelude to a popular furore which can only be 
described as unexampled. The Private View had 
out one topic of talk, and the picture was pre- 
served from destruction at the hands of a mob of 
friendly sight-seers only by the efforts of a police- 
man ; not since the days of Wilkie's first great 
success had such a guard been necessary. But 


I 9 I 

" The Roll-call " officer had unquestionably a busy 
time of it ; from morning till night the throng never 
loosened, or relaxed from its hard knot in front of 



the picture, except, indeed, on one occasion, when 
a gap, as memorable as the crowd, occurred on 
the day when the Queen, who did not visit the 
Academy at that time, had the picture removed 
to Buckingham Palace for a few hours, that she 
might see a work of such special interest to a 
sovereign who has always loved her army. " The 
Roll-call " was, as has been said, the result of a 
commission ; but, when Her Majesty expressed a 
wish to possess it herself, the owner loyally ceded 
his claim, on condition that the next year's picture 
should be his. The copyright was purchased for 
fifteen times the amount of the original commission, 
and during the ensuing four years was either in 
the hands of the engraver (Mr. Stackpoole, who 
produced an admirable plate) or on view in the 
provincial towns, where it became even a greater 
lion than it had been in London. And if the 
picture was a lion, the painter was the heroine of 
the season, and so pursued with her celebrity that 
the preservation of serenity of mind was no slight 
achievement. The whisper of her name drew 

crowds about her in ball-rooms, at exhibitions, in 
the public ways ; but she never relaxed work for a 
day. The next year's picture was her constant 
preoccupation, and neither 
the pleasure of celebrity 
nor the distraction of noto- 
riety ever discomposed her. 
"Quatre Bras" was exhib- 
ited in 1875, and drew a 
crowd equal to that which 
thronged round its prede- 
cessor ; it had also the hon- 
or of Mr. Ruskin's praise. 
" I never approached a pict- 
ure," he wrote, "with more 
iniquitous prejudice against 
it than I did Miss Thomp- 
son's — partly because I have 
always said that no woman 
could paint ; and secondly, 
because I thought what the 
public made such a fuss 
about must be good for 
nothing. But it is Ama- 
zon's work, this, no doubt 
of it, and the first fine pre- 
raphaelite picture of battle 
we have had, profoundly in- 
teresting, and showing all 
manner of illustrative and 
realistic faculty. The sky is 
most tenderly painted, and 
with the truest outline of 
cloud of all in the exhibi- 
tion; and the terrific piece 
of gallant wrath and ruin on the extreme left, 
where the cuirassier is catching round the neck 
of his horse as he falls, and the convulsed fallen 
horse, seen through the smoke below, is wrought 
through all the truth of its frantic passion with 
gradations of color and shade which I have not 
seen the like of since Turner's death." "The 
Return from Balaclava" followed in 1876, and 
"Inkerman" — a return of infantry in this case 
— in 1877. 

This was the year of Elizabeth Thompson's 
marriage with Major (now Colonel) Butler, C. B. 
(who as the author of "The Great Lone Land" 
needs no introduction), an alliance which has 
strengthened her love of military art by inspiring 
her with a personal interest in the army, and which 
has also given her a new country — Ireland — hence- 
forth to be in its landscapes and its people the 
subject of her enthusiastic study. The deep 
coloring of the climate, its strong effects of light 
and cloud, have delighted her eye and her im- 
agination. Whereas her former recreation con- 




form and strengthen her 
dramatic imagination. Of 
her two pictures exhibited 
in 1879, one (" 'Listed 
for the Connaught Ran- 
gers") dealt with Irish 
life, and the other ("The 
Remnant of an Army ") 
with one of the most 
tragic events in the In- 
dian history of England — 
the solitary arrival of Dr. 
Brydon under the walls 
of Jellalahad in 1842, after 
the destruction of General 
Elphinstone's force of 
16,000 by the Afghans. 
A commission from the 
Queen produced "The 
Defense of Rorke's Drift," 
an incident of the Zulu 
war, exhibited at the 
Royal Academy in 1881 ; 
and in the same year was 




sisted generally of a trip to Italy, 
to the familiar Mediterranean or 
to the Tuscan vineyards in time 
of vintage, it now usually takes 
the form of a stay in some Irish 
glen; but wherever Mrs. Butler 
travels it is with the enjoyment 
of one to whom all things are 
always new, whose sketch-book 
is constantly in her hand, who 
has that artist's gift felicitously 
called by some one "collodion 
on the retina," and whose intelli- 
gent appreciation of the realities 
of character and incident in the 
world has done so much to in- 







completed the picture called "Scotland For- 
ever"! which, in the opinion of many critics, 
showed an increased development of power in 
movement, in the expression of energy, and 
in the drawing of the horse. 

Mrs. Butler in her studio is surrounded by 
the signs of work rather than by those signs 
of play which make many an artist's atelier 
an apartment for the display of luxury. No 
bric-a-brac and no bits of subtle drapery are 
there, no stuffed peacocks and no orange-trees 
in flower : her art deals with other matters. 
The walls are hung with old uniforms — the 
tall shako, the little coatee, and the stiff stock 
— which the visitor's imagination may stuff out 
with the form of the British soldier as he fought 
in the days of Waterloo. These are objects of 
use, not ornament ; so are the relics from the 
fields of France in 1871, and the assegais and 
spears and little sharp wooden maces from 
Zulu-land. These accessories of her art are 
peculiarly dear to Mrs. Butler. And, in- 
deed, uniforms and arms have a meaning, a 
spirit and significance, which no other kind 
of garment possesses. Her models are not the 
usual professionals — pretty women in elaborate 
historical costumes, or men who have achieved a 
triumph in the development of muscle. Mrs. 
Butler draws directly from her subjects — the sol- 
dier and the horse ; and as Wordsworth's pro- 
verbial servant-girl, on being asked to show her 
master's study, said that his library was in the 
house but that he studied in the fields, so it may 
be said that Mrs. Butler studies in the fields, in 
the streets, making notes from horses as they 
rest at pasture or labor at draught. The walls 


of her studio are hung with sketches as well as 
with "properties" — Genoese studies and Floren- 
tine studies, drawings of Tuscan oxen in the vine- 
yards, impressions of landscape, light, and color. 
That she spends her time in learning is a fact 
which should exist in the life of any artist ; and 
that the altered conditions and duties entailed 
upon her by matrimony have not interfered with 
her old industry should encourage those young 
women who fear marriage as an obstacle to success 
in art. 


Vol. X.— 13. 






By J. T. Trowbridge. 

Chapter VII. 


RUPE and Rod ran on merrily down the bank, 
while Letty waited alone on the bridge, in the 
pleasant evening light, until Rush came out of 
Mr. Rumney's yard and joined her. 

The innocent girl was thinking gratefully of the 
happy days which awaited them in that charming 
spot, with the lake so near and the river run- 
ning by their door, delighting their eyes while it 
turned the mill, when a glance at Rush's per- 
turbed face startled her from that bright dream. 

"Rupc ! " he cried, " go and find the boys, and 
tell them I want to see 'em. About something 
very particular." 

Then, after the youngsters were gone : " I '11 
tell you all about it now," he said in answer 
to an eager inquiry from his sister. " I did n't 
want the boys to know, for we must keep it from 

He was in a fever of excitement. He took off 
his hat, to cool his brow in the dewy evening air, 

and continued, while she listened with breathless 
interest, leaning by the rail of the bridge : 

"There 's a good reason why I did n't like the 
looks of that new building over on the pond ! It's 
the boat-house of a newly formed club — the Ar- 

" We knew it was a boat-house," said Letty. 
" But I don't see why it should trouble you." 

" No, you don't take in the meaning of it," 
replied Rush. "But I did, as soon as I found out 
that Dick Dushee had thought it necessary to 
make up a fib about it. There 's a rage for boat- 
ing, just now, here in Tammoset and Dempford." 

"All the better," said Letty. "It will make 
things lively. We are to have a boat, too, you said 
yourself; and Lute has promised to make one." 

" It would all be very well, but for one thing," 
said Rush. "Many of the boats will be kept in 
the new boat-house, and about the pond. Some 
belong down the river. And all will want to be 
passing up and down." 

" I should think so," replied Letty, still failing to 
see the evil which cast so dark a shadow. " Why 

* Copyright, 1882, by J. T. Trowbridge. All rights reserved. 



"There's our mill-dam! " said Rush, in a low, 
intense whisper ; and, as the)' walked on, he told 
her all he had heard. " This was what made 
Dushee so rabid to sell." 

" Oh, I see ! " exclaimed Letty. " But the dam 
has a right to be there ? " 

"So Uncle Dave's lawyer told us; he looked 
into that matter when he examined the title to the 

" He ought to know." 

" Of course he knows. But he merely went to 
his law-books for his knowledge, probably. It 's 
a pity he did n't talk with the Dempford and Tam- 
moset Argonauts ! " 

"Did n't any of you talk with anybody else?" 
poor, distressed Letty inquired. 

" Why, yes ; the boys, when they came up here 
with Uncle Dave, went and talked with Mr. Rum- 
ney. He owns the land on the other side of the 
mill and up above here. He told them that 
keeping back the water did more good than harm 
to the land-owners, and he had never heard a 
complaint against it from one of 'em, during the 
dozen years and more the dam has been there. 
But he never said a word about the boats. Neither 
did Dushee." 

" Oh dear ! What can you do? " 

" I haven't talked with Lute and Mart," replied 
Rush. "But since the law is on our side, and 
the dam has a right to be there, and it is neces- 
sary to our business, — why, it would ruin us to 
take it away, — 1 know just what they will think." 

" They will stand up for their rights," said 
Letty, pride in her strong, resolute brothers rising 
above her fears. " They are not cowards. Neither 
are you, Rush ! " 

" I should hope not," said Rush, with a nervous 
laugh. " We have Mother to think of, you know. 
We have got all her money in this property, and 
we are bound to protect it, for her sake even more 
than our own." 

"Can't you see some of the Argonauts, — if 
that 's what you call them, — and come to some 
agreement with them ? I do so dread the thought 
of any trouble ! " exclaimed Letty. 

" So do I ; and, of course, we shall get along 
peaceably with them if we can. But, by their 
driving Dushee to sell out, I judge that they 're 
pretty rough fellows. It wont do for them to be 
rough with us ! " Rush added, with another excited 
laugh. " There come the boys." 

Near the house they met the two oldest, saunter- 
ing along the walk. They had had a good day in 
the shop, notwithstanding the fish-officer's visit ; 
and they were hopefully and tranquilly talking 
over their plans in their mother's room, when 
they received Rush's message. 

" How little they suspect ! " whispered Letty. 

"What 's up, Rocket?" Mart inquired, care- 
lessly, resting one hand on his hip. 

"Send back the boys," said Rush, in a low 
voice; for the two youngest were following. "I 
don't know, though ; I suppose they may as well 
be told ; but the whole thing must be kept from 
Mother. Go in, Letty, and if she asks any ques- 
tions, just say I wanted to talk about boats. She 
knows we think of building one." 

"What have you f-f-found out?" said Lute. 
•• Anything more about f-f-fish-officers ? " 

" Worse than that ! " Rush replied. And there, 
on the high bank above the river, in the fading 
twilight, with his four brothers grouped about him 
for an audience, he told briefly his story. 

After a few of their eager questions had been 
answered, Lute turned to the oldest and said : 

" It looks as if Dushee had let the knife into us 
middling d-d-deep. Do you remember how the 
d-d-deed reads ? " 

" I 'm afraid there 's not over-much comfort for 
us in that," Mart replied. "It guarantees the 
title to the real estate, but merely assigns to us the 
right he bought of Rumney to maintain a dam 
against his shore for ninety-nine years." 

" That is, the right to maintain it if we c-c-can," 
said Lute. 

"And we can," exclaimed Rush, "with the 
law on our side. And we will ! " 

" The law is a good thing to have on a man's 
side," Mart said. " But with a boat-club against 
us, made up of fellows from two towns, maintaining 
our right is n't going to be the smoothest job." 

Rush had expected to see his brothers take a 
more determined attitude at the start ; and this sort 
of talk disheartened him. 

" Dushee is a villain ! " he exclaimed, with burn- 
ing resentment. 

"Why don't you go right over and punch his 
head for him?" cried Rupert. "I would! I '11 
take that Dick ; and you see if I don't give him the 
worst pounding ever the mean son of a mean man 

" Don't talk nonsense," said Lute. " P-p-punch- 
ing and p-p-pounding wont do any good." 

" No," said Mart. "And remember, you boys: 
We 've the right on our side, to begin with, and we 
've got to move carefully, so as not to put ourselves 
in the wrong. So, just let Dick Dushee alone, and 
take care what you say to other people." 

" That 's the p-p-point," said Lute. " We are 
going to stand up for our rights, even if we have to 
fight for 'em. But we don't want to f-f-fight, 
unless we 're f-f-forced to. Is n't that the ground, 

"Precisely," said Mart. "We 've everything 




at stake here, and we 're not to be scared. If the 
principal Argonauts are reasonable, right-minded 
fellows, it 's likely we can make some amicable 
arrangement with them. If not " 

" I 'd fight 'em !" said Rupe. " I think there 'd 
be fun in it." 

"There might be. if it was n't for Mother." said 
Mart. " She must n't be troubled about this affair 
at all. Come, Lute." 

" Where are you going?" Rush asked. 

"To have a quiet and agreeable little chat with 

" Yes, let 's w-wash our hands of him the f-f-first 
thing," Lute assented. 

They started off, the younger boys following, 
intent oh witnessing the sport. 

" See here ! " said Mart. " We 're not going to 
battle. We don't need an army. Go back ! But 
Rush can come along as far as Rumney's, where 
we shall stop to have a little talk first." 

Chapter VIII. 


The elder Dushee was not pleasantly surprised 
when, that evening, there came a decided ring at 
the door of his new house on the Dempford side of 
the river; and, on opening it, lamp in hand, he 
looked out on the serious faces of the big Tinkham 

It was hard to manufacture, at once, and on the 
spot, smile enough to cover that enormous blank 
countenance of his ; but he struggled manfully at 
it, and invited them to " step in." 

They stepped in accordingly, and remained 
quietly standing, while he placed the lamp on a 
table and offered them chairs. 

"Re'l spring-like weather, now," he observed, 
hospitably. "Any news?" 

" Y-y-yes, r-r-rather." said Lute, with gleaming 
spectacles. "Seems to be p-p-pretty good weather 
for news." 

" You told our brother Rush this evening," said 
Mart, "that there were some little things about 
the mill we should have to find out for ourselves." 

"Yes, certainly." 

There was hardly smile enough to go around 
among the Dushee features ; but the mouth made 
the most of its share, and grinned persistently. 

" And we 're f-finding 'em out," said Lute. 

" But we thought," Mart added, in his driest 
manner, " that it might simplify matters if you 
would be a little more liberal with your informa- 

" Truth is a p-p-prccious thing, we know," 
struck in the other's rapid stammer. "But a man 

should n't be too s-s-saving of it. And if you '11 
waste a little on us, now that it can't hurt your 
trade, we '11 be ob-b-liged to you." 

If there was any humor in their way of introduc- 
ing the business that brought them, not the least 
consciousness of it was betrayed by either of the 
boys ; and surely Mr. Dushee was in no mood to 
appreciate it. There was a rather grim earnest- 
ness in' their manner which to him foreboded 
unpleasant things. 

" Better set down," he said, as they remained 
standing. " Truth about what ? " 

"About the trouble you Ye had with the boat- 
club, and the probable amount in pickle for us," 
said Mart. " You Ye played a sharp game on us, 
Mr. Dushee : but we have n't come to make any 
unnecessary comments on that. The important 
thing now is, to know what we 're to expect from 
the Argonauts." 

"Wall, I d'n' know. Better set down," said 
Dushee, with a stammer that rivaled Lute's. " I 
guess you '11 get along with 'em. You 're new 
men. There wont be the prejudice agin' you 
there has been agin' me." 

"Mr. Rumney says you Ye had your flash- 
boards broken and parts of the dam torn out more 
than once. How is it ? " Mart inquired. 

" He told you that? " said Dushee, quickly. 

' ' Yes ; but not till after you had made your 
trade. He was careful about that. Now fork out 
the facts," Mart added, with his most deliberate 
drawl, "and oblige." 

" I have had a little trouble with some of 'em," 
Dushee admitted, after urging his visitors again to 
"set down." "There was skurce a boat on the 
river, 'cept now and then one goin' up into the 
pond, fishin', not for years. I could always 'com- 
modate 'em, and nobody never questioned my 
right to have a dam there." 

" N-n-nobody ? " said Lute. 

" Nobody ! " Dushee repeated, with emphasis. 
— " Better set down — Not for a dozen years at 
least. Then a passel of boys, that was in baby- 
frocks when I built it, they 'd growed up to feel 
smart and think they owned all creation. They 
must have their boats; and, if I wasn't on hand to 
pull up my flash-boards for 'em, they had no 
more sense than to go to smashin' things. Come! 
wont ye set down ? " 

"Guess not," said Mart. " We 're like the boy 
that went visiting with his mother, and when she 
kept asking him at the table: ' Can't ye eat a little 
more, sonny ? can't ye eat a little more ? ' ' Mabby 
I could,' says he, ' if I stood up.' We can take in 
your facts best standing. And as we don't mean 
to intrude on your hospitality again, we want a full 
meal this time." 

i88 3 . 



This was said with such solemn deliberation that, son was over, you would make some different ar- 
when Mr. Dushee tried to receive it as a joke, his ningements before spring?" 
forced laugh sounded strangely out of place. "Wall, I have made different arrangements," 

" Why did n't you tell us this when we first asked said Dushee. 
about the d-d-dam ?" Lute inquired. "Yes, you 've sold the property to us," Mart 

" I d'n' know ; I wa'n't bound to. Every man in replied, with his usual drawl, but with a dangerous 
business has his enemies and his little troubles, light in his eyes. " Without im umbrance, you said, 

but I call a fight like this 
with two towns the big- 
gest sort of an incum- 

" We 've got about as 
much satisfaction as 1 
expected," said Lute. 
"When a man deliber- 
ately swindles a widow 
and her boys in this way, 
it 's like exp-p-postulating 
with a hyena to call him 
to an account for it. But 
there 's another thing we 
came to say." 

"Yes," Mart added 
" I told you to-day thai 
we would take the horse 
and wagons and things at 
your price. But now, we 
think differently." 

"You back down?" 
cried Dushee. 

" We b-b-backdown," 
said Lute. "A man may 
overreach us once. But 
we 're fools if we let him 
overreach us tw-twice." 

"But he 's a good, 
sound horse ! " Dushee 

" He may be," Lute 

answered. " But it will 

take more than your word 

to convince us there isn't 

some inc-c-cumbranceort 


" We don't want anything more to do with you, 

or any more of your property," said Mart. "Come 

and take it away." 

"And another thing," Lute added, as they were 
about to go. " Come and get your property, as 
my b-b-brother says. But after that, if I catch 
you on our place again, I '11 p-p-pick you up and 
throw you into the w-w-water. " 

As Dushee was about twice as big as the boy of 
nineteen who made this threat, it would have 
sounded laughable enough, if anybody there pres- 
ent had been in a laughing humor. 

As for Dushee, he was in a blustering rage by 


and you don't s'pose he 's goin' to make out a list 
of 'em when he comes to sell out, do ye ? " 

"Little troubles is g-g-good," said Lute. 

"Of course,"said Dushee. " This boatin' fever '11 
die down about as sudden as it come up; storm '11 
blow over in a little while, and you '11 be all right." 

" Did n't you have to keep your flash-boards 
open half the time last summer? " Mart demanded. 

"Wall, I did keep 'em open a little more '11 I 
wanted to, I allow." 

" And did n't you keep your dam from being 
destroyed at last by promising, if the Argonauts 
would leave it for you to use after the boating sea- 





this time. He threatened, at first, to sue the widow 
for the price of the horse and wagons ; then he 
taunted the boys with their smartness in putting 
into the market dolls' carriages that crowded his 

"You're welcome to make 'em now, at any 
price," he roared after them as they walked out of 
the door. "But you Ve somebody else besides me 
to compete with. You 've got the Argynots to 
compete with ! Compete with them ! " 

They kept their temper pretty well, considering 
the circumstances, and went slowly away, without 
deigning any further reply. 

It had been, on the whole, an unfortunate visit, 
and they had the poor satisfaction of feeling that 
they had gained nothing by it but an enemy, 
against the day when they were to have enemies 
enough and to spare. 

They had gained two enemies, in fact ; young 
Dick Dushee, who had stood in the background 
during the interview, counting henceforth for one. 

Chapter IX. 


The next morning the boys went quietly about 
their work, wisely resolved not to borrow trouble, 
but to await developments, and make the best of 

They started up the mill, and the rush of the 
water-wheel, the clank and whir of the machinery, 
and the noise of the jig-saw and lathe, made the 
music their hearts loved. 

Early in the forenoon, Mr. Dushee came over 
with Dick, hitched the horse to the wagon, loaded 
up the extra pieces of harness, the blankets and 
robes, with other articles, and took the buggy in 
tow. They said nothing to anybody ; but Dick 
glared insolently at Rupe and Rod, who were dig- 
ging in the garden, and snatched from their hands 
the rake and fork they were using, these being 
among the effects which the Tinkhams had finally 
declined to purchase. 

" Don't say a word to him ! " Rupe charged his 
brother, who was inclined to resent this rudeness. 
"They're welcome to their old traps; we don't 
want 'em." 

This was said loud enough for the Dushees to 
hear, while Rupe bestowed on Dick a look of de- 
fiant scorn. 

The Dushees drove away with their miscella- 
neous possessions, and a few minutes later Rupe 
and Rod were on their way to the village, with 
money Mart had given them to buy the garden 
tools they needed. 

The next day was Sunday ; and in the afternoon 

Mrs. Tinkham made her first visit to the seats in 
the willow tree over the river. 

Mart carried her across the plank in his strong 
and tender arms, and placed her where the best 
views were to be had, while Letty followed with a 
shawl to wrap around the delicate shoulders. The 
sun was shining, but there was a chill in the air. 

There was room on the benches for the whole 
family, though Mart remained leaning against one 
of the great branches, and Rod chose to perch 
himself on a limb. 

Lute had a newspaper, and Letty had brought a 
book from which to read aloud to her mother. But 
book and newspaper were forgotten in the charm 
of the situation and the pleasant communion which 
united the hearts of mother and children. 

"Mr. Dushee must be a man of some taste," 
said the widow, looking delightedly around, "or 
he never would have put these seats here in this 
old tree." 

"I fancy he has about as much taste as his old 
roan horse has," replied Mart. " He used to have 
a partner in the business, who lived in the house 
here with him ; and it 's to him and his young wife 
that we owe these and some other pleasant things." 

"Speaking of the horse," said his mother, "I 
can't understand why you concluded so suddenly 
not to buy him, after I had given my consent." 

"We have n't much c-c-confidence in Dushee," 
remarked Lute, who had pulled off his spectacles 
to read his newspaper, but now put them on again 
to look about him. " He would never let on, if the 
horse's legs were c-c-covered with spavins and 

" Besides, we shall probably want to use all our 
spare cash in establishing ourselves here," said 
Mart, thinking of their rights to be maintained and 
perhaps fought for. " Then there will be a satisfac- 
tion in buying a better horse, and new wagons and 
things, when we can afford them." 

"A wise conclusion, I've no doubt," said his 
mother. "Rocket, I do think it was a happy in- 
spiration that made you hunt up this place and 
insist on our buying it ! Does n't it seem, chil- 
dren, as if it had been made and kept for us, just 
as Rocket said ? " 

The older boys did not respond to this senti- 
ment so promptly as might have been expected, 
the consciousness of an important secret kept 
from her, and of troubles in store of which she 
did not dream, tying their tongues. 

But Rush spoke up earnestly: " 1 hope you will 
always think so, Mother." And Letty, to the re- 
lief of her brothers, began to expatiate on the 
beauties of the place, in her extravagant, girlish 

" I was sorry to take you children out of school," 

i88 3 .] 



the widow said. " But I am told the schools here 
are as good as those in town, and you, Letty, shall 
begin to go at the commencement of the next 
term, along with Rupe and Rod." 

" I want to stay at home and work in the gar- 
den," said Rod. "We are going to raise flowers, 
and corn, and potatoes, and peas, and beans, and 
strawberries, and everything." 

"You shall have work enough in the garden," 
said Mart; "all you hanker for, I '11 warrant." 

" What a blessed day of rest this is ! " said the 
mother, " after the turmoil of moving and getting 
settled ! It seems as if there was nothing now to 
mar our perfect enjoyment." 

" N-n-nothing !" stammered Lute, taking off 
his glasses again to look at the newspaper, but 
thinking all the while of the menaced dam. 

" I 'm only afraid you'll work too hard, boys," 
she went on. "You've been looking rather care- 
worn for a day or two ; and I don't like to sec it. " 

"We 've had a good many things to think of," 
drawled Mart, glancing from under his contracted 
brows at some object down the river. 

" Too many ! " exclaimed the mother. " I think 
some are unnecessary. The boat, for instance, 
which you talk of making. Don't think of that at 

" We shall want a boat," said Lute, carelessly. 
" There 's a new boat-club here in town, and we 
may wish to j-j-join it." 

"Why, yes," returned the mother; "it will be 
pleasant to be on good social terms with the young 

" V-v-very," said Lute. " We hope to be." 

"There comes a boat, now ! " cried Letty, her 
eye having followed Mart's down the river. " Two 
of them ! " 

" Three !" called Rod from his perch on the 
limb, as a third boat hove in sight around the bend 
below the mill. 

" How charming they look ! " exclaimed the 

" L-1-lovely ! " said Lute, peering anxiously 
through his glasses. 

"They are the first of the season," said Rush. 
" They are coming up with the tide." 

The flash-boards were up, yielding a free pas- 
sage to the boats, the foremost of which, impelled 
by sturdy oars, came gliding through. 

"If it was a week-day, and the mill was going, 
I don't see how they would pass the dam," Mrs. 
Tinkham observed, looking down on the boatmen, 
who, in their turn, looked up at the group in the tree. 

" Sunday is the time for them," said Mart. " And 
they '11 naturally come at flood-tide, when the flash- 
boards are always open, whatever the day." 

Then, without giving her time to reflect that the 

boats would probably be returning with the ebb, 
and that on working days they would find the pas- 
sage in the dam closed, he added: 

" I 'm afraid it 's a little cool for you, Mother. 
I don't want you to take cold the first time ; for I 
expect you will pass whole days here when the 
weather is warm and the trees are in foliage." 

"But you are not going to take me in so soon ! " 
she said, entreatingly, as if she had been the child 
and he the parent. 

"I think I'd better." And he put his arms 
about her. 

"Oh, yes; we'll all go," said Letty, at a hint 
from Rush. 

There was something in the appearance of one 
of the boats which the boys did not like ; and if 
their mother was to be spared all knowledge of the 
threatened troubles, it was high time that she 
should be got out of the way. 

Chapter X. 


The first boat, having passed the dam, staid 
its oars. The second likewise slackened speed, 
and drifted with the current abreast of the mill, 
while the third boat came up. 

In the bow of this boat was a burly fellow, whom 
we may as well introduce to the reader. 

He was a Dempford boy, named Buzrow — son 
of a Buzrow whom nobody we can hear of ever 
knew, but who was popularly supposed to have 
possessed prodigious strength. Tradition declared 
him to have been double-jointed, or " double- 
j'inted," as the boys had it ; and there was a story 
that he had once knocked down a cow with his fist. 

Milton Buzrow — for that was the son's name; 
though why a Buzrow who could knock down cows 
with his fist should honor a poet by calling a child 
after him, admits of some speculation — Milton, I 
say (commonly called Milt), was hardly yet twenty 
years old ; but, in addition to the honor of being 
the son of the cow-smiter, he also enjoyed a repu- 
tation for tremendous physical prowess. He made 
no claim to being, like the mythical Buzrow, double- 
j'intcd, but his style of conversation clearly showed 
that he regarded the knocking down of cows as an 
act of heroic manhood to which he, too, might, in 
due time, aspire. 

Such a Buzrow was naturally a leader among a 
certain class of boys ; and that he did not often 
lead them into ways of peace and quietness need 
hardly be said. He was one of the Dempford 
Argonauts, and, we must add, not one of the mild- 
est-mannered and most modest of those young 
gentlemen, by any means. 




It was Milt Buzrow who had- made a braggart 
vow, at a meeting of the club in November, that 
if Dushee's mill-dam remained to obstruct their 
navigation of the river until after he had got his 
boat into the water in the spring, he, for one, 
would proceed, in open dajlight, to do it some 
dreadful damage. 

Spring was now here, and here was the mill- 
dam. Here also, this Sunday afternoon, when he 
might have been better employed, was Milt Buzrow 
in his boat. Would he dare to execute his threat? 

That became an exciting question to his mates, 
seeing that he had no longer a timid and crafty 
Dushee to deal with, but three stalwart-looking 
lads watching him from the tree. 

He had committed himself, however, to an act 
of aggression, and it would never do to have it 
said that a Buzrow had backed out of anything 
because he was afraid. 

The dam was a simple structure : strong stakes 
driven into the river-bed, with closely fitting hori- 
zontal planks nailed to them, over a mud-sill across 
the bottom of the river. 

Buzrow had two of his trusty followers with him, 
and as they kept the boat in place with their oars, 
he hauled up a crow-bar from the bow, where he 
braced himself, and began to strike the point of it 
against the planks. 

He was striking and wrenching, and a plank was 
beginning to splinter, when somebody in the other 
boat whispered: "Lookout! there comes one of 
'em ! " and Buzrow, glancing up from his work, saw 

At the first movement of the iron bar, the sec- 
ond son had slipped from the tree down the bank, 
and sprung to the platform over the Tammoset end 
of the darn. 

"See here, young man!" he called out, "you 
are a stranger to me, and I am not aware that I 
ever d-d-did you any harm." 

His manner was not at all menacing, and Buzrow 
inferred that he could treat his stammer, and his 
spectacles, and his wise-looking old-young face 
with contempt — all the more safely because he 
himself was on the opposite side of the flash-board 
opening, about ten feet off. 

" No, you n-n-never have," the son of the cow- 
smiter replied, with a mock stutter which greatly 
delighted his associates. " But this dam has, and I 
promised Dushee that if it staid here till spring 
it would get smashed." 

" But Dushee has nothing more to do with it," 

struck in another voice ; and there were two Tink- 
hams on the platform. 

The second was Rush, who had stopped to snatch 
up a bean-pole, and now stood grasping it, while 
he joined his remonstrance to Lute's. 

As there was nothing at all comical about his 
determined manner and blazing eyes, Buzrow 
deemed it worth while to treat him with rather 
more respect, especially as the pole was a dozen 
feet long. 

" I don't know anything about that," he deigned 
to respond ; then with a whisper to his oarsmen, 
"Get a little further out of his reach." 

" But you ought to know about it, before you go 
to destroying our property ! " said Rush. " We did 
n't suppose this dam injured any one, when we 
bought it. We have come here to get an honest 
living, in peace with our neighbors, if we can." 

" That you can't, as long as you keep a dam 
here," said a man in one of the other boats. " We 
have no quarrel with you, and don't want to have. 
But if you think you are going to step into ■ 
Dushee's place and do what he found to his cost 
that he could n't, you 're mightily mistaken." 

" All we want to do," said Lute, " is to carry on 
our lawful b-b-business ; and that we 've a p-p-per- 
fect right to do." 

" We don't want to interfere with your business, 
or injure you in any way," said Buzrow. " But you 
have no more right to keep a dam here than you 
have to put a gate across the highway. That 's all 
there is about that." 

Having got well beyond sweep of the bean-pole, 
he gave startling emphasis to these words by 
striking another blow with his bar. 

"Break that dam," cried Rush, lifting the pole, 
and standing ready to leap from the platform into 
the river, "and I '11 break your head ! " 

By that time there was a third Tinkham on the 
spot, namely, Mart, with two more younger ones 
hastening to bring clubs and brick-bats from the 

"Give me room, boys, "said Mart. " No, Rocket, 
I don't want your pole. Don't fling any of those 
missiles, boys ! " 

He stepped to the end of the platform, and stood 
there weaponless, his right hand clenched and rest- 
ing on his hip, in a favorite attitude, the other 
hanging loosely by his side ; rather thin of face 
and lank of form, but of goodly height, long- 
limbed and athletic, and with an eye like a hawk's 
as he looked over at Buzrow and his iron bar. 

C To be continued. ) 



By H. H. 


The Chinese New Year's day in 1882 fell on the 
seventeenth of February. They have a week of hol- 
idays at their New Year, just as we do between the 
twenty-fifth of December and the first of January. 

On Thursday, the sixteenth, the Chinese 
laundry-men and shop-keepers in Santa Barbara 
printed in the newspapers of the town an invita- 
tion to all their friends and patrons to call and see 
them the next day. This invitation said that 
there would be fire-works in the morning, from 
half-past twelve o'clock to one, and from eight 
to ten, and from nine to ten in the evening. 

In the cities they make a fine display of fire- 
works, but none of the Chinese people in Santa 
Barbara are rich, so there were no fire-works, 
except crackers ; but there were barrels and 
barrels full of these, and the Chinese boys do not 
fire off crackers on their New Year's day as 
American boys do, a cracker at a time, or one 
package at a time : they bring out a large box 
full, or a barrel full, and fire them off, package 
after package, as fast as they can, till the air is 
as full of smoke as if there were a fire, and the 
ground is covered with red, half-burned ends. 




Long before we reached the part of the town 
where most of the Chinese live, we heard the 
noise of the crackers going off; and when we 
came to the street where the Joss-house is I 
was almost afraid to drive in, there was such 
a racket and such a smell of smoke. The 
Chinese did not seem to mind it at all. They 
were hopping about in the smoke, pouring the 
crackers out on the ground, box after box, barrel 
after barrel. You could not see their faces clearly 
for the smoke. Groups of American boys stood 
as near as they dared, looking on. Now and then 
one would dart in and snatch up one cracker, or a 
string of them, which had not gone off. 

I thought the American boys had almost as 
much fun out of it as the Chinese. 

This firing of crackers did not last long, luckily. 
If it had, the air would have been so bad that 
nobody could have breathed. After the fire-works 
stopped, we went into the houses. Every Chinese 
family keeps open house on New Year's day, all 
day long. They set up a picture or an image of 
their god in some prominent place, and on a table 
in front of this they put a little feast of good things 
to eat. Some are for an offering to the god, and 
some are for their friends who call. Every one is 
expected to take something ; and they are so 
courteous that they always provide one dish of 
sweetmeats for Americans, who may not like the 
Chinese cooking. 

There was no family so poor that it did not have 
something set out, and some sort of a shrine 
made for its idol ; in some houses it was only a 
coarse wooden box turned up on one end like 
a cupboard, with two or three little tea-cups full 
of rice or tea, and one poor candle burning before 
a cheap paper picture of the god pasted or tacked 
at the back of the box. 

In some of the best stores were groups of 
Chinese men playing cards and smoking ; each 
man had, sitting on the table before him, a tiny 
little tea-cup, no bigger than a doll's tea-cup ; 
it would not hold more than one small mouth- 
ful. As fast as these were emptied, they were 
filled again from a pretty china tea-pot, which 
stood inside a round bamboo basket on the 
table — the last place you would have looked for 
the tea-pot if you had been asked to find it ; 
but this is the way the Chinese keep their tea 
hot. The baskets are lined with many thicknesses 
of wadding, covered with soft satin or silk, and 
are very much prettier than the "cozies" which 
English people make out of quilted silk, in the 
shape of helmets, to be shut down over the tea- 
pot to keep it warm. 

In one of the stores two men were playing a 
game which has been played, under different 

names, all over the world. It consists simply in 
one man holding out his hand, with part of the 
fingers closed and part open, and his antagonist 
calling out, instantly, how many of his fingers are 
open. One would think nothing could be easier 
than this. But when the movements are made 
rapidly it is next to impossible to call out the 
number quickly without making a mistake. For 
every mistake a fine of some sort, according to the 
agreement of the players, is to be paid. These 
Chinese men played it with such vehemence that 
the perspiration stood on their foreheads, and their 
shrill crying out of the numbers sounded like un- 
broken sentences ; there did not seem a breath 
between them. They rested their elbows on the 
table, and, with every opening and closing of the 
fingers, thrust the fore-arm forward to its full 
length, so there was violent exercise in it. 

The Italian peasants whom I used to see playing 
it in Rome took it in an easier fashion. They 
rested their wrists on a table, or the door-sill, or 
the ground, wherever they happened to be play- 
ing, and simply opened and closed their fingers. 
In the Etruscan Museum in Rome, on one of the 
vases which were buried in tombs many hundred 
years before Christ's day, there is a picture of two 
men playing this very game. So it seems prob- 
able that it is as old as the human race itself. 

It was amusing to watch the American boys 
darting about from shop to shop and house to 
house, coming out with their hands full of queer 
Chinese things to eat, showing them to each 
other, and comparing notes. 

" Oh, let me taste that ! " one boy would ex- 
claim, on seeing some new thing ; and, "Where 
did you get it ? Which house gives that ? " Then 
the whole party would race off to make a descent 
on that house, and get some more. I thought it 
wonderfully hospitable on the part of the Chinese 
people to let all these American boys run in and 
out of their houses in that way, and help them- 
selves from the New Year's feast. 

Some of the boys were very rude and ill-man- 
nered — little better than street beggars; but the 
Chinese were polite and generous to them all. 

The Joss-house, where they had their re- 
ligious services, was a chamber in one of their 
best houses. A door from an upper balcony 
opened into it. This balcony was hung with 
lanterns and decorated with mottoes printed in 
large letters on bright red paper. The door at the 
foot of the stairs which led up to this room stood 
open all day, and any one who wished could go 
up and say his prayers in the Chinese fashion, 
which is a curious fashion indeed. They have 
slender reeds, with tight rolls of brown paper fast- 
ened at one end. In front of the image or picture 



of their god they set a box or vase of ashes, on 
which a little sandal-wood is kept burning. When 
they wish to make a prayer, they stick one of the 


V'T?' 't±. 


reeds down in these ashes, and set the paper on 
fire. They think the smoke of the burning paper 
will carry the prayer up to heaven. 

There was no image of their god in this little 

Joss-house — they were too poor to have one; they 
had only a gay colored picture of it put up on the 
wall. In front of this was a frame-work of wood, 

decorated with 
gay colored 
papers, tinsel, 
,. artificial flow- 
J ers, and pea- 
cock feathers. 
Narrow tables 
of different 
r heights, like 
shelves, were 
arranged in 
front of this, 
and on them 
were placed a 
strange collection of articles. Vases filled with 
paper roses and gold and silver leaves ; lighted 
candles ; and great bowls filled with pebbles and 
water, in which were growing beautiful plants of 
the fragrant Chinese lily (a flower like our white 
narcissus, and with an odor so sweet that it can 
scarcely be endured in a room). 

Three boxes of ashes had sandal-wood burning 
in them, and dozens of the prayer-sticks slowly smol- 
dering away. The smell of the burning sandal-wood 
and the prayers and the sweet lilies made the air 
of the room almost sickening. 

The lowest table of all was covered with a beau- 
tiful scarlet cloth, embroidered in bright silks. On 
this was spread the feast for the Joss himself. First, 
five tiny tea-cups filled with tea; next, five still 
tinier tea-cups, filled with wine (these were not 
much larger than a thimble) ; next, five little bowls 
filled with boiled rice — on the top of each of these 
bowls one date pressed down in the rice. In front 
of these were five larger bowls, filled with all sorts 
of queer twisted-up fried things, made out of 
potato and dough, or macaroni. One of them, a 
macaroni made from rice, was very pretty : the 
threads were fine and silvery, and curled and 
twisted into all sorts of fantastic shapes. 

An intelligent Chinese man, who could speak a 
little English, was in charge of this room. I asked 
him why they put these tea-cups of wine and tea 
and rice before their god ; if they believed that the 
god would eat and drink. 

" Oh, no," he said. " That not what for. What 
you like self, you give God. He see. He like 

I asked him if I might have a photograph taken 
of the Joss shrine and house, to be printed in a 
magazine, to show American boys and girls how 
the Chinese boys and girls kept New Year's day. 
At first he hesitated ; but finally he said yes, if I 
would come very early in the morning, before the 




Chinese people wanted to come in.' So, very early 
the next morning, I went with a photographer, 
and he took the picture. As soon as the Chinese 
people in the street saw us coming, they began to 
gather in a crowd to look on. But Ah Linn would 
not let one of them come into the room till the 
picture was done. Then we took a picture of the 

•• They will never let them have their pictures 
taken," said the photographer. " It is the hardest 
thing in the world to get the Chinese to sit for their 
pictures. They have a superstition that, if a man 
has his picture taken, he will fall ill and die before 
the year is out.* I expect that is what they are 
telling these children now." 



outside of the house. There were gay lanterns 
and bright red and yellow mottoes on each side 
of the door, which 1 thought would show in the 
picture, but they did not. The light was not 
strong enough to bring them out. 

As we were arranging the instrument, I caught 
sight of three Chinese children in the door of 
one of the houses, the youngest not more than 
two years old, and the oldest not over six. They 
were dressed exactly like the grown-up ones, and 
looked so droll, toddling along in their baggy 
trousers and big-sleeved shirts, that I wanted to 
have them in the picture. Their father said they 
might go with me, and be taken ; they looked a 
little afraid, but I coaxed them along, and was 
just placing them in good positions by the posts 
of the piazza, when, from the crowd of Chinese 
men and boys who were looking on, there suddenly 
went up shouts, _ exclamations, and outcries, — 
angry voices calling to the children. 

I do not know whether this was the case or not; 
but at any rate they frightened the children away, 
and I could not coax them back. The oldest one 
dragged the other two away with him as fast as he 
could, and when I overtook them on the threshold 
of their house, and began to ask their father if he 
would not come with them, and make them stand 
still, he shut the door hastily in my face, saying 
in Chinese something which sounded as if it might 
be very unpleasant indeed. 

Afterward I tried to get one of the big boys 
from the Chinese Mission, a boy who called himself 
a •' Christian Chinese boy," to stand in the door- 
way and be photographed ; but even he was 
afraid to do it. 

'• It is no use," said the photographer. "You 
have n't the least idea how afraid they are of it. 
They Ye got to be pretty thoroughly enlightened 
before they will have their photographs taken ; 
and even then they wont let their queue be seen 

* The same curinns belief exists among the Mic Mac Indians living along the St. Lawrence River, in New Brunswick. 



in the picture. If it shows the least bit, they '11 
make me print it out. I used to have great fun 
with some of them who had a laundry near my 
rooms. They 'd be out, hanging their clothes on 
the line, right under our windows ; and all I had 
to do was to open the window and point a stereo- 
scope at them, and they 'd drop everything, clothes 
and all, right on the ground, and run into their 
house, and never show their heads till we had 
gone away from the window/' 

I wondered very much that the Chinese boy 
from the Mission was afraid to have his picture 
taken. Perhaps if he had been by himself he 
would not have refused ; it would certainly have 
taken some courage to do it under the eyes 
of twenty or thirty of his countrymen, all believing" 
that he was doing something very like committing 
suicide. Afterward, he translated for me some 
of the mottoes which were on the bright papers 
hung up at the sides of the door of the Joss- 

The first one on the right hand, he said, was: 

" Man no tell lie, 
Tell everything true ; 
Be good-hearted to everything; 
Not cheat." 

The second one was : 

"The good-hearted are 
Good-hearted all round; 
Round like sun and moon." 

On the left side was this: 


" Good people believe in 
Mind what is good ; 
He don't care what other people had, 
He try to make good." 

Just below this was a picture of the Joss, 
fastened to the wall of the house ; in front of it a 
small table decorated with peacocks' feathers and 
gilt ornaments, and holding rows of tea-cups 

of wine and tea and food, like those in the inner 
room. Above it was a great red banner, with 
large letters printed on it, which the interpreter 
said meant : 

"God in Heaven, 
We pray to thee ; 
Come down from Heaven to teach us." 

In front of this was a box of smoking, fragrant 
sandal-wood ashes, stuck full of the little prayer- 

On my way home, I stopped at the Chinese 
Mission. This was a small room in a low adobe 
building, and here the Christian Chinese were 
keeping their New Year's day, with open house 
to all their friends, just as the Joss worshipers 
were doing in the other street. But, instead 
of the incense and prayer-sticks and heathen 
pictures, they had only bouquets of beautiful 
flowers, and bowls of Chinese lilies, and plates 
of cake and candies on a table. On the wall 
they had hymns in English and Chinese, printed 
on large cards. There was a small organ in 
the room, and, whenever any lady came in who 
could play the organ, the Chinese teacher asked 
her to play a tune for the boys to sing one of these 
hymns ; they sang very well, and I sat for half an 
hour listening to them. Later in the afternoon, as 
I was driving in a carriage past the building, 
I heard their voices again, rising full and clear 
above all the noise of the street. They were 
singing "The Sweet By and By "; and I thought 
that those words must mean a great deal to poor 
Chinese boys, who only a few years ago were 
burning paper prayers and bowing down before a 
painted idol. Now they are held by their country- 
men in scorn and detestation, because they have 
adopted the Christian way of worshiping God, 
but in the good "by and by" will come a day 
when they will all worship together. 

To-DAY my doll is one year old, 
And she shall have a purse of gold 
If she will speak, and tell me where 
I 'm sure to find a gift so rare. 




By s. h. s. 

I think that the silver moon must know 

That 't is holy Christmas night, 
When first she looks from the twilight sky 

On the earth so cold and white ; 
She smiles, as if musing on blessed things, 
And touches the snow-drifts like sleeping wings. 

She 's old, you know — so old that she shone 

When our Baby King was born, 
'Mid the far-off hills of Bethlehem. 

In a manger rude and lorn, 
And beamed in his beautiful blue eyes 
When they oped to those soft Eastern skies. 

And he smiled at her, too, it may be. 

In his wondering baby way, 
And stretched out his fair little hands 

To catch at some fleeting ray ; 
And watched her, softly, till sleep's stil 
Folded his eyelids like fringed flowers. 


Oh, I know she remembers his look. 

As he lay in that lonely place, 
And the angels that hovered near 

His mother's radiant face, 
The new star that throbbed in the solitude 
And the lifted eyes of the shepherds rude ! 

And if we could hear, she would tell 
Stories more strange and sweet 

Than even the bells and the choirs 
In passionate tones repeat; 

And that one blessed star we should know. 

Which led to His cradle ages ago. 


By Mrs 

[ilia p. Ballard 

One of the chief pleasures 
in china-painting is to be able 
to produce something specially 
appropriate in design to the article decorated. A 
spray of leaves and blossoms of the tea on a tea- 
cup, or coffee berries and leaves on coffee-cups 
(which was done on the famous set painted for 
the White House, except that in this set the stem 
of the plant was made the actual handle of the 
cup), are good examples. 

The idea of decorating ice-cream dishes with 
the pattern of snow-crystals having seemed to me 
a pleasantly appropriate one, I send the method. 

which by experiment I have 
proved practicable, to the 
readers of St. Nicholas. 

Should you have or be able to procure a book 
published by Appleton in 1865, ''Cloud Crystals: 
A Snow-flake Album," you will have a sufficient 
variety of patterns to answer all practical purposes. 
St. Nicholas has also given a number of repro- 
ductions in the issue for March, 1882.* The crys- 
tals themselves can best be obtained by letting 
them fall upon a cloth of black velvet, during 
a light snow-storm. These need a magnifying 
glass to reveal their beauty and enable you to 

* We here republish a few of these designs. 

iS8 3 .] 



enlarge the details correctly. The crystals shown 
on the preceding page may be used on plates of 
the size of the pattern given. 

They can be varied on each 
plate. Four smaller ones, 
of one kind, alternating 
with four a littl< 
larger, of the same 
size as the cen- 
ter one, form 
a pretty 

Fhis part of the work can be learned from a teacher 
in a few minutes. When the plate is dry, you will 
not need to draw the figure upon it. 
It mars the tinting and is un- 
necessary. Take a square 
of paper, just the size to 
embrace the hexagon- 
al figure, — as they 
are all formed on 
the six-sided 
plan, one 

tion. If un- 
able to tint the 
china, they look 
well if done merely 
in sepia on the plain 
white ; but those who can 
tint will find upon trial that 
white crystals on a blue ground 
are most effective. They may easily be 
prepared in the following manner : Select china 
as perfect as possible, that no flaw may appear in 
the delicate blue. Tint the plate with Indian- 
blue. The process of tinting is simple and readily 
acquired. Mix the Indian-blue thoroughly, by 
using the palette-knife, with a 
few drops of oil of lavender, 
thinned with a little turpentine. 
Cover the plate quickly with 
sweeping lines from a broad 
brush, and beat the surface with 
even strokes (a buffer, made by a 
bunch of cotton covered with smooth old linen, is 
preferable) until it is of an even shade throughout. 

paper an- 
swers for all 
of one size, — 
and make six 
points upon it, 
where the outer end 
of each line is to be, 
as shown in the diagram 

Lay this upon the plate (it is well to do 
the center one first) and with a sharp pencil make 
a point upon the china to correspond with each 
point on the paper. You can then go from point 
to point with a sharp needle or pen-knife, etching 
by aid of the eye only. After the six lines are 
etched, the details of each separate figure can 
be made in the same way. A little practice will 
make it entirely easy. The etching must be 
thoroughly done, so as clearly to expose the 
white china in distinct narrow lines. 

The plates are then ready to be sent to the firer, 
and may have an ornamental gilt edge given 
them at the trifling additional cost of ten cents 
per plate. 




By Emily S. Oakey. 

There was a Dog, and he barked and barked and barked 

20 loud, they say, v 

That he frightened all the rats and mice a hundred miles ( 


There was a Cat so sleek and fat, and she had naught 

to do 
But eat her cream and sew her seam, and sit and look 

at you. 

i88 3 .; 



There was an Eagle, and he flew and flew out in the 

And flew and flew up in the sky, and then flew down 
. again. 

Vol. X.— 14. 




There was a Boy, and. he built a raft, and his other 

name was Sam, 
And on his raft he rowed and rowed and rowed to 


The Bells did ring as he came in, and the rain it 
rained that day, 

And he saw the Dog that barked and barked and 

And he saw the Cat that always sat upon her cushion 

And she ate her cream and sewed her seam, and sat 

and looked at him. 

i88 3 .] 


21 I 

W$i ^^ u w 




And he saw the Eagle fly and fly and fly out in 

the rain, 
And fly and fly up in the sky and then fly down 


And the rain rained on his raft as he rowed and 

rowed to Rotterdam, 
And it broke in two and he fell through, and his 

other name was Sam. 





By Frank R. Stockton. 

Chapter VI. f 

FOR some days after the departure of Louis for 
his mother's. chateau, none of his friends had the 
least idea of his unfortunate situation. At the 
castle it was supposed that he was overstaying his 
time with his family, and at Viteau no one knew 
that he had left the castle. At last, Barran, some- 
what provoked that the boy should so deliberately 
disobey his orders, — for he had told him to return 
promptly, — and knowing that his mother could 
always furnish him an escort, sent messengers to 
Viteau, demanding that Louis should immediately 
come back with them. 

This, of course, caused great consternation at 
the chateau, and the messengers went hurriedly 
home, accompanied by Raymond, to tell the news 
that Louis had not yet been seen at his mother's 

The Countess wished Bernard to go with the 
messengers, but this he refused to do, urging that 

his place could be nowhere else than at Viteau, 
and that Raymond could confer as well as any one 
else with Barran, regarding the immediate steps 
which should be taken to find out what had become 
of Louis, and to rescue him from any danger 
he might have fallen into. 

The Countess spent the time, during Raymond's 
absence, in tears and prayers. When he returned, 
there came with him a small troop of well-armed 
men, which Barran had sent to press on, as rapidly 
as possible, to the estates of the knight from the 
South, for it had been thought very likely that 
this knight had been prevented in some way from 
stopping at Viteau, and that he had taken Louis 
on with him, intending to send him back at some 
convenient opportunity. That the boy should 
have been lost, in. any way, from the company of 
the southern knight, Barran did not consider pos- 

This belief of a man so sensible as Barran par- 
tially comforted the Countess; but when the troop 

* Copyright, 18S2, by F. R. Stockton. 

f This story was begun in the November number. 

i88 3 .] 



returned, and told how Louis had left the knight's 
company to ride on by himself, as none could 
doubt, to his mother's house, the poor lady was 
completely overwhelmed with grief, and thus she 
remained until Barran arrived at Viteau, for which 
place he started as soon as he heard the news. 

Vigorous measures were now taken for a search 
after Louis. It was generally agreed that he must 
have been captured by robbers, for there was no 
other danger which was likely to befall him on the 
road ; but what robbers had taken him, and to what 
place they had conveyed him, were questions not 
easy to answer. That a band of cotereaux might 
then be in the forest, within ten or fifteen miles of 
Viteau, was not at all improbable ; but to find out 
their hiding-place, and, also, to find them in it, 
would certainly be difficult tasks. The forests of 
that time spread over such a vast extent of country, 
and were so dense, and in many places so appar- 
ently pathless, that to find anything so carefully 
hidden as a robber's camp would be a matter 
almost as much of chance as of skill and design. 

Barran privately declared that, if it were not for 
the Countess, who seemed almost overcome with 
grief, he would quietly wait a few days before 
attempting to penetrate the forest with any force ; 
for he was sure that, if the boy had been captured 
by cotereaux, their only object was to get a ransom 
for him, and that they would soon be heard from. 
Under the circumstances, however, Count De Bar- 
ran saw that it would be necessary to take immedi- 
ate action, and Bernard was very active in pushing 
forward the most warlike preparations. 

Some of these appeared almost ridiculous to the 

"How now, Squire?" he said. '■ One might think 
that we expected the rascals to attack this chateau, 
and carry off the other boy. By the plans you lay, 
there will be more cross-bows and lances left at 
Viteau than we shall carry with us into the forest." 

"I should not leave the Countess defenseless, 
good Sir Count," replied the squire. 

" I know you are a good man and a brave 
soldier, Bernard," said Barran, "and as much to 
be trusted; in peace or war, as many a knight of 
good renown ; but this is something too prudent. 
In these times the cotereaux do not come out of 
their holes to our chateaux and castles to carry us 

Bernard hesitated before making answer to this 
speech. He had intended informing Barran of 
his recent discoveries in regard to the visits of the 
Dominican monk, but he had not thought it well 
to speak of the matter now, when the minds of 
every one were so occupied with the present 
great trouble. However, he knew that it would be 
necessary to give the reasons for the peculiar 

measures he advocated, and so he said, in a low 
but impressive tone : 

" No, good Sir Count, the cotereaux do not come 
to our houses to carry us away, but the officers of 
the Holy Inquisition do." 

"What means that?" cried Barran, turning 
pale ; and then, on a warning signal from the 
squire, he lowered his voice and continued: "Has 
the Countess brought upon herself the censure of 
the priests, by her strange ideas about the saints ? 
I have heard of them. Tell me quickly, is that 
what you mean ? " 

The squire bowed his head. 

" This is, indeed, grievous," said Barran ; " but, 
surely, we need have no great fears. Tell me, 
quickly, what has happened ? " 

Then Bernard told all that he feared and all 
that he had heard. 

Barran was not easily frightened. Indeed, he 
was too apt to sneer at things which other people 
considered dangerous ; but this was such a very 
serious matter that it caused him great anxiety 
and even fear, when he heard of the peril to which 
the wife of his dear old friend was likely to be 

"This must not be allowed," he said. "We 
can not suffer that gentle lady to be taken from us 
by the Inquisition. Even if she should be found 
entirely innocent, which is not likely, the trial itself 
is something I can not think of for a moment. And 
yet what is to be done? We can not fight the 

" No, Sir Count," said Bernard, "but I shall be 
here, with all the force of men and arms that I can 
bring together, to defend my lady, and if the 
Church fights me, I shall do my best battle." 

"And you shall not do battle alone, my good 
Bernard," said Barran; "but it may be that we 
shall find some better way to avert the evil than 
by force of arms, which, indeed, would amount to 
very little, I fear me, in the end. But now we 
must give our hearts and hands to the finding 
of this poor, foolish boy." 

Bernard was perfectly willing to give his heart 
to the finding of Louis, but he would not give his 
hand. Nothing could induce him to leave the 
chateau, where he insisted upon beii% left with a 
moderate force of well-armed men. 

Barran, with several knights from his castle, for 
whom he had sent when he found that there 
would, probably, be more work to be done than he 
had at first anticipated, set out as soon as possible, 
at the head of a large body of followers, some of 
whom were expert in all kinds of wood-craft, and 
as capable as any men could be of finding out the 
paths of beasts or human beings in the depths of 
the woods. 




The party quickly made its way along the road 
down which Louis must have ridden ; and, a few 
miles below the place where the road forked, 
turned into the woods, to the west, and made care- 
ful search for paths, or any traces of the passage 
of men, through the undergrowth. Several well- 
marked paths were soon discovered, and along the 
most promising of these Barran and his men 
pushed their way, sometimes separating, in various 
directions, and then coming together again, until 
they had penetrated far into the forest. 

Unfortunately for the success of their search, the 
camp of the cotereaux was in the woods to the 
east of the road. To be sure, the forest, in every 
direction, would be searched in time, but if the 
Count's party should keep on in the way it was 
going, it would be long before it could find the 
huts of Captain Michol. 

Raymond stayed at the chateau with his mother. 
He much wished to join the Count's party in the 
search for his brother, but Barran told him that it 
was his duty to try to comfort and console the 
Countess until Louis should be brought back, 
and, therefore, Raymond reluctantly remained at 
Viteau. He loved his mother, and was always 
willing to do anything that would please or benefit 
her, but, in this case, he thought that she, being 
safe at home, did not need him nearly so much 
as his poor brother, who probably was suffering in 
captivity, no one knew where. 

On the evening of the second day after the 
departure of the searching party, Raymond came 
down into the grounds of the chateau. His mother 
was asleep, and he came out for a little exercise. 

Not far from the house he met the squire. 

" Bernard," said Raymond, " I think it is a fool- 
ish thing for you and me and all these men to 
be idling here. We might leave my mother with 
her ladies, and a man or two, and go, the rest of 
us, to help scour the woods to find dear Louis." 

Just at this moment, and before Bernard could 
answer him, Raymond saw, coming up from the 
lower part of the grounds, the Dominican monk, 
Brother Anselmo. 

"What does that man want. Bernard?" he 
exclaimed. "There have been two priests here 
to-day, to console my mother in her affliction, and 
I do not think another one is needed now, espe- 
cially not this man, who does not belong to our 
monastery and who keeps himself a stranger to 
me. My mother is asleep, and should not be 

" If she is asleep," said the squire, "she shall 
not be disturbed." 

He then walked back to the house, closely fol- 
lowed by Raymond, and stood in the entrance 
door. In a few moments the monk appeared, 

and with a slight motion of the head, but not a 
word, stepped forward to pass in. But the squire 
stood stoutly before him, and stopped him. 

"My lady, the Countess," he said, "is weary 
and sick at heart on account of the loss of her 
young son. She is sleeping now and can not be 

" If she is sick at heart," said Brother Anselmo, 
" that is the greater reason why I should see her." 

"It can not be," said Bernard. "She needs 
rest, and no one must disquiet her." 

"What right have you, Squire Bernard," said 
the monk, " to forbid my entrance? Are you the 
master of this house ? " 

"No," said Raymond, stepping forward, "but 
I am, when my mother can not act as its mistress, 
and I say that no one shall disturb her this night. 
Two priests have been here to-day, and I know 
she expects no others." 

"Boy," said Brother Anselmo, "stand aside! 

ou should be chastised for such presumptuous 
words ; and as for you, Squire, I command you, 
in the name of the Church, to let me pass." 

" I honor the Church as much as any man," 
said Bernard, " but I do not believe that she 
grants to her priests the right to ask what they 
please, in her name. I might come to be asked 
for my purse, in the name of the Church ; and 
that I would not give up, any more than I shall 
give up my right to protect my mistress, the 
Countess, in this, her first hour of sleep and rest 
for many days." 

Brother Anselmo was very angry. Shaking his 
fist at the sturdy squire, he cried : 

" Stupid blunderer ! You shall see, and that 
right soon, what power the Church gives me." 
And then, without another word, he turned and 
walked rapidly away. 

" What does he mean?" asked Raymond. "I 
greatly dislike that monk. He is always asking 
my mother questions which trouble her much to 

Bernard made no reply, but stood for a moment 
in deep thought. Then he said to himself: " An 
hour to the monastery, and an hour back. There 
is yet time, and the plan I think of will be the 
better one. I can not trust the men to stand against 
the priests. Raymond ! Run now, and have your 
horse saddled and bridled, and ride out of the 
upper gate, and wait for me in the road." 

" Why so? " cried Raymond, in surprise. " It 
is too late for exercises." 

" 1 can not answer now," said Bernard, hurrying 
away. " Be speedy and I will tell you on the 

Raymond, much amazed, but feeling quite sure 
that the squire had some good reason for this 



strange proceeding, ran to get his horse, while 
Bernard ordered the men-at-arms to hastily equip 
themselves for an expedition, and to gather to- 
gether, mounted, inside the north gate. Then he 
went upstairs to the apartments of the Countess, 
and asked to speak with one of her ladies. The 
Countess, who was only lightly dozing on a couch, 
heard the squire's voice, and, instantly rising, called 
to him to know what news he brought. 

Bernard advanced within the door-way, and in a 
hurried voice told his lady that the news he brought 
was of great import, but that he must tell it to her 
alone. The Countess then desired the ladies who 
were with her to retire to another room, and the 
squire, in as few words as possible, but very 
earnestly and forcibly, told her of her great dan- 
ger, of the threats of the Dominican monk, and of 
the fact that he had heard, that day, of the arrival 
of a body of men, well-armed, at the neighboring 

"In an hour or so," he said, "these men will 
be here, I greatly fear me. Raymond is already 
on the road, for I wished to spare him this wretched 
story, and, if we do not start quickly for Barran's 
castle, where you will find present safety, it may 
happen that weeks and months may pass before 
you will have news of Louis, even if he should be 
found to-morrow." 

" You mean that I may not be here to meet the 
news ? " the lady said. 

Bernard bowed his head. The Countess did not 
hesitate, but came to a decision at once. 

"I shall be ready," she said, "in a very short 
time. Have horses prepared for myself and my 
three ladies. We must hasten to Raymond, if he 
be alone on the road." 

She then called her ladies, and began to make 
rapid preparations for the journey. 

The horses were scarcely ready when the ladies 
made their appearance in the court, and, in a few 
minutes, accompanied by Bernard and the men-at- 
arms, they rode out of the north gate. An elderly 
man, who acted as seneschal, or keeper of the 
establishment, was left, with the ordinary servants 
arid vassals, in charge of the chateau. 

Raymond, riding slowly up and down the road, 
was soon overtaken, and then the squire, without 
entering into explanations, urged his party onward 
as swiftly as possible. 

"What is the meaning of all this ? " cried Ray- 
mond, in great perplexity, riding up to his mother. 
" It is stranger than any of the old tales the women 
used to tell me." 

The Countess was a lady of strong mind and 
body, and although the unknown fate of her 
younger son had overwhelmed her with grief, 
this new peril to her whole family had thoroughly 

aroused her, and she was riding steadily and 
swiftly onward. 

"It is a strange tale," she said — "stranger far 
than any I thought would ever be told in this fair 
land ; but I can not tell it to you, my boy, until our 
journey's end. Then you shall hear it all." 

So Raymond, with the rest, rode on, and he, 
with all the others, excepting the squire and his 
mother, supposed that this long night-ride had 
something to do with the rescue of Louis. 

Chapter VII. 

LOUIS sat for a long time, in the bit of shade by the 
tree, before Jasto returned ; but, when that learned 
man at last made his appearance, he merely re- 
marked that the Captain had kept him longer than 
he had supposed he would, and, after that, he had 
to look for a quill, of which to make a pen. 

" It is not an easy thing to get the right kind of 
quill for a pen, you must know," he said, as he took 
his seat by Louis, and began to scrape the lower 
end of a long quill with a broad, sharp knife which 
he took from his belt. ' ' A crow-quill will do very 
well, or even a quill from a hawk; but I like a long 
one, like this, which came from a heron's wing, 
nailed up in one of our houses. And he who 
nailed it up never dreamed of the benefit that a 
quill from that wing would bring to our good com- 

" What benefit ? " asked Louis. 

"The benefit that comes from the money your 
mother will send us when she reads your letter." 

" Oh ! " said Louis. 

"And while I make this pen," continued his 
companion, " I shall tell you the story of my 

"Yes, indeed," cried Louis; "I should rather 
have that than the pen — at least, just now." 

" That is a bad choice, for the pen is to give you 
liberty, and the story will not do that. However, 
there is a lesson in the story, and you shall have it. 
It was just before one of the battles between Queen 
Blanche and the Duke of Burgundy. I was a sol- 
dier then, in the service of a good knight; and 
although I was not his squire, but a simple man-at- 
arms, ready to fight on horse or on foot, or not to 
fight at all, just as the case might be, still I was a 
better man than the squire — for he could not write, 
any more than his master could. So, just before 
the battle, the knight sent for me, and, said he, 
' Jasto, I have heard that you are a wise fellow and 
can write, and I want you to write me a letter.' He 
knew I could write, because I had told him so, and 
had told all my companions so, for this I found I 
must do, otherwise they would never be aware of 
it ; for, not knowing how to write themselves, how 




could they comprehend that I knew ? ' I want to 
send a messenger back to my castle,' said my good 
knight ' and I want him to carry a straight and 
fair message, which he can not do if I send it by 
word of mouth. So you must write what I wish to 
say in a letter to my seneschal, and the messenger 
shall carry it.' With that, he showed me a little 
piece of parchment that he had with him, and a 
phial of ink and a pen, and he bade me sit down 
and write what he told me to say. I liked not this 
haste, which gave me no time for study and prep- 

casque which he expected from the armorer, and a 
long-sword which hung up in the great hall, and 
divers other things, of which I wot not now. 
When I came to write down all this, I found my- 
self sorely troubled, for you must know that to 
write a letter requires a knowledge of many things. 
One must know what letters are needed for a word, 
what order to put them in, and how to make them. 
"Some words need a good many letters, and 
if the letters in a word are not the right letters, 
and are not set in a befitting order, it will be 


aration, and I told him, with due respect, that I 
could not write unless I had a table on which to 
lay my parchment. Whereupon he made a man 
with a cuirass get down on all-fours before me, so 
that on this man's steel back I could write as on a 
table. My master then told me to write how that, 
knowing the enemy would soon reach the spot 
where we then lay, and feeling the want of a 
stronger force, he desired his seneschal to send him 
five more men, and five horses, with arms and all 
things needful, and also to send therewith a new 

of no use for any man, even the most learned 
scholar, to try to tell what that word is. So I soon 
found that for man}' of the words I could not 
remember the letters, and of those letters I did 
remember there were some that 1 could not make, 
for I had forgotten their shape. But I would not 
tell my master that, for it would have been a 
sorrowful thing to have fallen from my high 
place as the most learned person in our company, 
not to speak of the punishment I might have- 
expected. So I wrote on, making the best words 




I could devise with the letters at my command, 
and urging my master to repeat every sentence, 
so that I should be sure to get it straight and 
fair ; and in that way I learned the whole letter by 
heart, and read it to him, when I had finished it, 
so that he was greatly gratified. ' Let me see 
the letter, my good Jasto,' said he; and when 
he looked at it, he said, ' The words seem very 
much like each other' — which was the truth, 
indeed, for most of them had the same letters 
in them, measured out in very much the same 
measurement. 'But it all looks simple enough,' 
he went on to say, ' and I greatly desire that 
I could read it, but that is beyond my powers.' 
And then he made his mark, which his seneschal 
well knew, and the letter was done. 

" Thereupon he called for a messenger to take it 
in all haste to his castle, but I told him that he 
could have no better messenger than I should 
be, because, having writ the letter, I could read it 
to the person to whom it was sent, if it should 
so be that he could not read it himself. ' But 
old Hubert can read, else I would not send him a 
letter,' said my lord. But I answered that, if he 
had never seen my writing, it might be so strange 
to him that it would take much time for him 
to understand the proper slope and indication 
of the letters, and so the reinforcements might be 
sorely hindered in their coming. Therefore it 
was that I was sent, and I so saved my life ; 
for, shortly after, the battle came off, and, 
if I had been there, I know I should have been 
killed, as most of my knight's men were. But 
I was safe in the castle, and when I went back 
with the men and the horses and the armor, I 
met my lord coming to his castle, and right glad 
was he to see me with my company, for he was 
in such sore plight that he was even afraid of 
thieves, although there were but few of them to be 
met with then, being mostly in the wars. And 
therefore, I, being fresh and unwounded, took 
the lead among the men-at-arms, and felt high 
in my lord's favor, and this was far better than 
being able to scratch off a poor letter that could be 
read. " 

" But what said the seneschal to your letter? " 
asked Louis. 

" Oh, nought at all," answered Jasto. " I read 
it to him out of my head, and showed him his 
master's mark." 

"But did you not feel, all the time, that you 
were a great trickster and cheat-? " said the free- 
spoken Louis. 

" No more than I do now," answered Jasto, 
"coming here to help you with your letter to 
your mother, and telling you a story with a moral 
to it, showing how arduous a thing it is to write 

a letter, so that you may be ready for your diffi- 
culties when they come upon you. And now this 
pen is done, and it ought to be, for I have put 
a score of nibs to it, and there is not enough quill 
left for another one. It may be blunt, but it will 
make a mark." 

" And what am I to write on ?" asked Louis. 

"I'll find that and the ink this afternoon," 
said Jasto, "but now I smell dinner." 

In the afternoon, Jasto mixed up a black com- 
pound with some water, so as to make an ink, — 
rather thick and gritty, to be sure, but good 
enough for its purpose, — and he produced a piece 
of parchment, completely written over on one 
side. This writing he proceeded to obliterate, as 
far as possible, by rubbing it with a piece of 

Louis was impatient, and suggested that he 
might mark out the words on one side and go on 
writing on the other ; but Jasto would not hear to 
this, for it would argue too great poverty on the 
part of the cotercaux to send a letter on the back 
of another, and so he rubbed and rubbed, and 
talked, and came and went, until it was nearly 
dark, and so the letter was postponed until the 
next day. 

On the morrow, however, Jasto refused to pro- 
duce the writing materials, because there was to 
be a grand expedition of the band, which would 
require nearly all the men; and Michol had said 
that Louis must be taken along, as he did not 
wish to leave him behind, guarded only by the 
few men who would stay at the camp. 

" That 's a pretty way to do ! " exclaimed Louis. 
" Suppose I should be killed in this expedition, 
what will your captain say to my mother then ? 
I am not afraid to go, but 1 do not want to be 
taken for a robber, and be shot with an arrow, or 
have my head cut off." 

"Be not afraid," said Jasto, laughing. "The 
enemy will not hurt you, if you keep out of the 
way. You are to be under my special keeping, 
and I will warrant that the foe shall not kill you." 

Early in the morning, nearly the whole of 
Captain Michol's force, some armed with lances, 
some with bows and arrows, and others with long 
knives, or swords of various descriptions, set out, 
on foot, for a march through the forests. Louis 
went with them, closely accompanied by Jasto, 
who never lost sight of him. 

On the way, the good-humored robber, who 
seemed to be of a better class than most of his 
companions, using more correct language, and 
behaving himself better in every way, informed 
Louis of the object of the expedition. About eight 
or ten miles to the east of the camp of the 
cotercaux there was a chateau, almost as strongly 




fortified as a castle, the owner of which possessed 
a great number of hogs. These animals, until 
within a few days previous, had been confined 
within close bounds, for fear that they should be 
stolen. But as no evil-disposed persons had been 
seen for a long time in the neighborhood, the 
whole herd had been let out into the adjacent 
woods, where they would thrive much better, 
during the hot weather, than in their former 
quarters. Michol had been informed that these 
hogs were ranging through the woods, under the 
charge of two or three men, and he was now going 
to try to capture as many of them as possible. 
He took his large force, not because he expected 
any opposition from the keepers of the hogs, but 
because a great many men would be needed to 
surround and capture the animals, many of which 
would be lost if the herd should be allowed to 
scatter itself through the forest. 

As they walked along, Louis thought that it 
was a great pity that the first foray he ever set 
out upon should be an expedition, in time of 
peace, to steal pigs ; but he considered it wise 
not to say what was in his mind, for it was the 
business of these men to steal pigs, or anything 
else they could lay their hands on, — even boys 
and borrowed jennets, — and they might not fancy 
his finding fault with them. He was not afraid 
of Jasto, with whom he had become very friendly 
and communicative ; but many of the other men 
looked like fellows whom it would not be at all 
pleasant to offend. So he went along with the 
company, and made no objections until he had 
walked five or six miles through the forest, when 
he informed Jasto that he was getting very tired, 
and that he hoped they would soon come to the 
end of their journey, so that he could sit down and 

"As for that," said Jasto, "the end of your 
journey will soon come, if the signs ahead of us 
mean anything. Some of our foremost fellows 
have come back, and I think they are telling 
the Captain that the herd is not far ahead of us. 
And if that be so, it will make our work easier, 
for the herdsmen will be far from home and 
can not call for help. You and I will not go up to 
the field of battle, but will be posted outside, with 
here and there another brave fellow, to arrest 
any of the enemy who may take to flight in our 
direction. So keep up a brave pair of legs for 
a little while longer, and then you shall have your 

Sure enough, in less than a quarter of an hour 
Jasto received orders to wait with Louis, at the 
end of a small path through the underbrush, 
while the rest of the force spread themselves out 
widely through the forest. Before long a great 

noise of squealing and shouting was heard in the 

" We have come upon them," said Jasto, " and 
many a good meal of pork shall we have this 

" I hope the poor herdsmen are not getting 
killed," said Louis. 

" Have no fear for them," replied Jasto; " they 
will run away the moment they see one of us. 
And as they can not bring help, there will be 
no Christian blood shed. Look out there ! Stand 
close behind me ! Hear you that?" 

Louis plainly heard something rushing through 
the bushes, and in a moment a pig, about half- 
grown, dashed along the path toward them. 
When he saw Jasto, he stopped for an instant, 
and then made a rush, endeavoring to pass him. 
But the robber was too quick to allow that, and 
he stooped and seized the scampering porker by 
the hind leg. In an instant, Jasto was jerked 
upon his back, still, however, holding fast to the 
struggling pig. 

Louis shouted in laughter, and he enjoyed the 
fun so much that it was some moments before he 
considered that the shouting and wriggling Jasto 
probably wanted his assistance. He then ran up, 
and, taking hold of the other hind leg of the 
prisoner, enabled Jasto to get up, and to tie the 
pig's legs together with a strong cord which he had 
in his pocket. 

" There, now," cried Jasto, with a very red face, 
" the rest of the pork will be ready to cook or salt 
down, but this fellow I shall take home to fatten. 
He is too lean and lively for good eating now." 

In less than half an hour the rest of the company 
appeared, walking in a long line, some of the men 
bearing each a slaughtered pig, while here and 
there two follows carried a larger animal between 
them. Jasto threw his prize across his shoulders, 
and, although there was a good deal of struggling 
on the part of the pig, his captor held him firmly, 
and carried him thus throughout the whole long 
tramp back to the camp. 

When he reached the huts, Jasto immediately 
set to work to make a rude pen of stakes and poles, 
in which he shut up his pig, which was to be 
thoroughly fattened before sharing the fate of his 
brethren who had been slain in the forest. 

Louis was a very tired boy when he found him- 
self again in the camp, and he slept until a late 
hour the next morning ; but, as soon as he had had 
his breakfast and felt fully awake, he went to hunt 
up Jasto, so that he could begin his letter. 

But he found that individual, his well-mended 
and red-lined clothes exchanged for an indescribably 
wretched suit, busily engaged, with a large portion 
of his comrades, in cutting up and curing, in 



various ways, the pork which had been brought in 
the day before. The band had so much hog-flesh 
on hand that they hardly knew what to do with all 
of it, and they were so busy for several days that 
Jasto had no time to give to Louis and his literary 

But, as soon as the pork business was finished 
and Jasto was at liberty, Louis set to work in 
earnest to write his letter to his mother. 

Jasto prepared the parchment, nearly obliterat- 
ing the writing on one side of it, and, the ink and 
pen being ready, the work began, and a very im- 
portant work it seemed to be. Louis, of course, 
was anxious that his first letter to his mother 
should be a good one, well spelled and well 
expressed ; Jasto continually suggested forcible 
and high-sounding sentences, containing words 
which neither Louis nor he could spell ; the Cap- 
tain came several times to the place where the 
writing was going on, to insist on certain terms of 
ransom being clearly stated ; and nearly all the 
men in the band straggled up, one or two at a 
time, to know how the letter was coming on, and 
to hear Louis read what he had already written. 
It was a document of great interest to every one of 
the robbers, for, if it should succeed in its purpose, 
it would bring a large sum of money to the band. 

At last, 
after much 
labor and 
tion, Louis 
finished the 
letter just 
as the sun 
was setting, 
and as one 
of the men 
called out 
that the 


meal — which that day consisted principally of 
fresh pork — was ready. 

Louis laid his letter, the last words of which 
were scarcely dry, upon the ground, putting a 
stone upon it to keep it from blowing away, and 
ran to get his supper. While he and the rest of 
the company were busily eating, Jasto's pig broke 
out of the pen, and, seeing the parchment letter 
under the tree, devoured it without the slightest 

Chapter VIII. 

When Barran had searched the forest on the 
western side of the highway for nearly three 
days, and had found no traces of the cote- 
reaux, he was obliged to return to Viteau, before 
entering the woods to the east, to obtain a fresh 
supply of provisions. He was utterly astounded, 
of course, when he heard of the flight of the 
Countess, with nearly all her household ; but he 
was still more surprised, and very much alarmed, 
when the seneschal told him that, in an hour or 
so after the departure of the Countess and her 
party, the chateau had been visited by a large body 
of armed men, accompanied by several priests, 
among whom was Brother Anselmo. These men 
were admitted because the presence of the priests 
was a token that they were friends, but they 
behaved very strangely after they entered. One 
of them demanded to see the Countess, and 
when he was told that she had gone away to look 
for her son, as the seneschal supposed she had 
gone, he ordered the other men to search the 
chateau from top to bottom, evidently believing 
not a word that was told him. 

But after every room and every part of the house 
and grounds had been ransacked, and when it was 
found that the Countess was really not in the 
chateau, and that her ladies, and almost all her 
attendants, as well as the horses in her stables, 
had gone away, the 
search was given up, 
and, after a great deal 
of talking amongthem- 
selves, and a great deal 
of severe questioning 
of the seneschal and 
the other servants of 
the house who had 
been left behind, the 
unpleasant visitors de- 

What they wanted, 
and why they came, 
the seneschal did not 
know, any more than 




he knew why the Countess had left. But Barran 
was not long in divining the truth. He felt certain 
that the men with the priests were officers of the 
Inquisition, and that the Countess had heard of 
their intended visit, and had escaped from the 
chateau. Whether or not she was then really out 
of their power, he did not know ; but, as he hoped 
that her destination was his own castle, the Count 
determined to hasten home as fast as he could. 

After a brief halt for rest and food, Barran, 
with all his men, hastened back to his castle, 
where, to his great delight, he found the Countess 
safe from her pursuers. 

But the relief and satisfaction of the poor lady 
at her present security was entirely overbalanced 
by the news that her son had not been found. 
She was in such grief that Barran had not the 
heart to tell her of the visit of the Inquisitors. 
He assured her that he would immediately begin 
the search of the forests on the other side of the 
road ; but, before he started the next day, he held 
an earnest consultation with Bernard and with 
Count De Lanne, who was taken into confidence 
in this most important matter, in regard to the 
measures to be adopted should the officers of the 
Inquisition follow the Countess to the castle. 

Nothing was agreed upon, excepting that Ber- 
nard declared that she should never be given up, 
so long as life remained in his body ; but Barran 
considered it necessary that he himself should be 
at home, in case the Inquisitors should come to 
the castle ; and so, after conducting his men to the 
forest, and instructing them as to the manner in 
which they should proceed, he returned to the 
castle, where he remained quietly, without inform- 
ing the Countess of his presence. 

He would have been glad to assist in the search 
for Louis, for whose safety he was very anxious, 
but he regarded the mother's position as one 
which required his personal attention much more 
than did that of the son. He would have told her 
everything, and have urged her to leave France, 
if possible ; but he knew she could not be induced 
to take a step of the kind until she had seen her 
son, or had had definite news of him, and so 
he deemed it unwise to say anything about the 
Inquisitors as long as he felt sure that she would 
go no farther to escape from them. She asked no 
questions, for her mind seemed entirely occupied 
by the loss of her boy. 

She would not allow Raymond to go with the 
searching party, for fear she should in some way 
lose him also ; and this troubled her eldest son 
greatly until she told him, as she had promised, 
of the danger with which she was threatened, and 
which had caused her to leave her home. 

This information had a powerful effect upon Ray- 

mond. It seemed to make him several years older. 
At first he scarcely could believe that there were 
people in the world who could wish to punish his 
dear mother for believing what she thought right 
about religious matters; but when he heard how 
so many persons had been cruelly tried and pun- 
ished by the Inquisition for saying and thinking 
no more than his mother had said and thought, 
he saw what peril she was in ; and he determined, 
like Bernard, that he would never leave her until 
she should be safe from all her dangers. 

Chapter IX. 

When Captain Michol heard of the fate of the 
letter, — and there could be no doubt as to what that 
fate was, for the pig was found rooting around the 
spot where the parchment had been left, evidently 
searching for something else good to eat, — he was 
very angry. He knew that there was no more 
parchment in the camp, nor anything else on 
which a proper letter could be written, and he did 
not know when or where he could procure any 
material of the kind. He had made all his arrange- 
ments to send the letter, which had now been too 
long delayed, to Viteau the next day ; and this 
disappointment enraged him very much. He 
ordered Jasto's pig to be instantly slaughtered, and 
he told Louis that he would cut off one of his ears 
and send that to his mother, and then, if a hand- 
some ransom did not soon arrive, he would cut off 
the other one and send it also. 

Whether or not the Captain was in earnest in 
making this threat is not to be known ; but it 
frightened Louis greatly, and he determined that 
the morning should not find him in the power of a 
man who would do such terrible things, and he 
made up his mind to escape that night, no matter 
what might afterward happen to him. 

Accordingly, when Jasto was fast asleep, poor 
little Louis slipped quietly past him and made his 
way into the forest. He pushed blindly through 
the thickets and undergrowth, not knowing in 
what direction he was going — only anxious to get 
away as far as possible from the cruel Captain. 
It was very dark, and he frequently came violently 
against a tree, or stumbled over tangled vines and 
bushes, scratching his hands and face and bruising 
his body ; but he still pressed on, wherever he could 
push himself through the bushes. When daylight 
should appear he hoped to be able to make his 
way to the high-road, and, once there, he felt sure 
he could walk to Viteau. 

But, after hours of toilsome and painful strug- 
gling through the pathless underbrush, he found 
that, even by the increasing light, he could not 

i88 3 .j 


22 I 

discover, although he searched diligently, any sign after noon when he was awakened by some one 
or indication of a passage through the thicket. He laughing very close to him. 

even climbed a tree, but could see nothing except Louis opened his eyes with a start, and there 

was Jasto, who at that 
moment laughed again. 
The boy sprang up with 
a cry, and was about to 
plunge into the bushes, 
but the robber seized 
him by the arm. 

" No, no, my good 
Sir Page," said Jasto. 
"Don't lead me over 
any more such wretched 
ways as you have led 
me this morning. I 've 
had enough of them." 
"Oh, Jasto ! " cried 
Louis," you are not go- 
ing to take me back? " 
" I don't know," said 
the robber, "what I 
shall do with you, but 
I certainly shall not take 
you back the way you 
came. Where you crept 
under the bushes, I had 
to break through them. 
I never saw such a fel- 
low for hiding. How 
do .you suppose I found 
you ? " 

" 1 don't know," said 

'• I found you," said 
Jasto, "by not looking 
for you. The rest of 
our men — and nearly 
all of them turned out 
to search for you, when 
we found you had run 
away — scattered them- 
selves about in all di- 
rections, to see if they 
could catch a glimpse 
of you. I did nothing 
of that kind. I knew 
that if a boy like you 
were to crouch under 
a thick bush, I could 
not see him. So I 
looked for little bits of blue silk from a pair of 
trunk hose, and little shreds of purple cloth from 
a tunic that I knew of. I saw a bit of the silk on 
some briers when I started out, and I knew I 
should find more. I lost your track many times, 
but every now and then a bit of rag on a thorn 



trees and bushes — the latter extending, in what 
seemed like impenetrable masses, in every direc- 

Almost tired to death, he sat down at the foot 
of the tree he had climbed, and in a few minutes 
was fast asleep. He slept for hours, and it was 




would encourage me; and so, at last, I came up to 
the gallant young page who was marking his way 
with pieces of silk and costly cloth. It made me 
laugh to think how truly these rags had led me to 

"I am glad, Jasto," said Louis, "that you 
found me, and not one of the other men. I don't 
believe you will make me go back to the Captain 
to have one of my ears cut off. You will show me 
the way to go home, and I promise you, if you will 
do that, that my mother will send you a good sum 
of money, quite as much as she would have sent to 
the Captain if she had got my letter and had 
ransomed me." 

"I am not sure about that," said Jasto, "but I 
have been thinking over the matter, and it may be 
that I shall not take you back to our camp. I 
have a kindly feeling for you, Sir Page. First, 
because I think you are a lad of spirit, as I used to 
be ; and second, because my pig ate your letter, 
and so brought your trouble on you. Therefore, 
I feel bounden to help you out of it. But, if I 
send you to your mother, she may forget my 
sole share in your rescue and return, and may 
send the ransom-money to our company, when it 
will be so divided and shared, and measured into 
parts, that I shall get very little of it. So I think 
I shall take you to your mother, and then I shall 
get all the ransom myself, and not be obliged to 
share it with any one. And I am sure the good 
lady, your mother, will give more to him who 
brings you back than to him who has merely car- 
ried you away." 

" Indeed would she ! " cried Louis, more than 
delighted at the prospect of being taken directly 
to his home. 

"Well, then," said Jasto, "take you this piece 
of bread, which I put in my pocket before I set 
out this morning, and when you have eaten it, 
you will be' strong enough, mayhap, to go on 
to your mother's chateau, though it is still a good 
distance from here ; and I promise you that I shall 
not lead you through such rough ways as you led 
me. But we must be careful, for, if we meet 
any of my good comrades, there will be an end 
of our plan." 

When Louis had finished eating, — and, coarse 
and hard as the bread was, he devoured every 
morsel, for it was his breakfast and his dinner, — 
the two started off for Viteau. Louis supposed that 
they would try to reach the main road as soon as 
possible; but Jasto assured him that he had no 
idea of doing that, for the woods would be 
occupied, at various points along the road, by the 
cotereaux, who would expect the fugitive boy to 
take the highway as soon as he could find it. 
Instead of that, Jasto intended to slyly make his 

way, through the woods, to the nearest point to 
Viteau, and then to strike across the country to 
the chateau. 

Jasto was an expert and experienced woods- 
man, and he found paths where Louis would 
never have imagined they could exist ; and with 
great care and caution, and frequent halts for 
outlook and listening, he led the boy through the 
devious mazes of the forest, without meeting one 
of his comrades. About dark they reached the edge 
of the forest, and then they cautiously made their 
way to the chateau, where they arrived late in the 

It would be hard to express the consternation of 
Louis — and that of Jasto was almost as great — at 
finding that the Countess had gone away ; that 
Barran had been there that day, returning from 
a search for his lost page, but had almost immedi- 
ately set out for his castle, and that a body of 
strange men, accompanied by priests, had been 
searching the house for his mother only the night 

Poor Louis, who could not imagine what all 
this meant, and who was bewildered and astounded 
at seeing the happy home he had always known 
deserted by every one excepting the seneschal and 
a few servants, desired nothing so much as to go 
immediately to his mother. But this Jasto would 
not have allowed, had it been possible, for the 
boy was nearly exhausted by fatigue and want 
of food. After some supper had been prepared 
for the two travelers, and Louis had eaten as 
much as Jasto thought good for him, the robber 
accompanied his young companion to the room he 
had been used to occupy with his brother Ray- 
mond, and, after seeing him safely in bed, lay 
down on the floor across the door-way, and went 
to sleep himself. It was evident that he intended 
to take good care that Louis should not leave him 
this time until he had conducted him into his 
mother's presence. 

The seneschal was rather surprised at the 
actions of this man, who announced himself as 
a friend to the boy, and one who had saved him 
from the robbers who had captured him ; but, 
as he and Louis seemed on very friendly terms, 
the old man made no objection to anything that 
Jasto said or did. 

In the morning, Louis insisted upon an early 
start for Barran's castle ; but, although Jasto was 
now perfectly willing to go, he was afraid to do so, 
for there was no other road but the one which led 
through the woods, and on that he certainly 
would be seen by some of the cotereaux, who 
would keep the road under constant watch. To 
make his way with the boy through the woods on 
the west of the road would be almost impossible, 

i88 3 .] 


for he was not familiar with that part of the forest, 
and did not know the paths ; and Louis would of 
a certainty be tired out long before he could reach 
the castle, which was distant almost a day's jour- 
ney for a horse. 

But fortune favored him, for, after he had spent 
most of the day in endeavoring to impress these 
things on the mind of the impatient Louis, and in 
making efforts to find some one who would be 
willing to go to the castle and inform the Countess 
of her son's arrival at Viteau, there came to the 
chateau a party of horsemen who had been sent 
by Barran to see if anything had been heard from 
the boy at his home, the party in the eastern woods 
having, so far, met no traces of his captors. 

The course was now easy enough, and the next 
day Barran's men set out for the castle, taking 
with them the happy Louis and Jasto, who felt no 
fear of capture by his former comrades now that 
he was escorted by a body of well-armed men. 

The scene at the castle, when Louis arrived, was 
a joyous one. The Countess forgot all her 
troubles and fears about herself, in her great 
happiness for the return of her son ; and even 
Raymond ceased to think, for a time, of his 
mother's danger, so glad was he to see his dear 
brother again. Every one at the castle, indeed, 
was in a state of great delight, for Louis was a 
general favorite, and few persons had expected to 
see him again. 

Among the most joyful of his welcomers was 
Agnes. She listened to his story with the great- 
est eagerness, and, when he began to lament that 
he had lost her horse, she exclaimed : 

" We don't think much about horses, my father 
and I, when we are afraid that we have lost boys. 
It is easy enough to get another jennet, and, before 
many years, this one would have been too small 
for me. Do you think he is in a comfortable 
place? " 

" I don't know," answered Louis. "T did not 
see where they took him." 

"At any rate," said the girl, promptly, "the 
thieves can not ride him in the forest, and so he 
will not be worn out by hard work. But we wont 
talk about him any more. And your brother's 
new falcon is gone, too, I suppose." 

"Oh, yes," said Louis, ruefully. "But he will 
not grieve about that, for he did not know he was 
going to have one. I thought of that a good many 
times, when I was among the robbers. If he had 
been expecting it, things would have been a great 
deal worse than they are now." 

" Of course he did not expect the bird," said the 
girl, "but he knows you have lost it, for every- 
body was told that it was to carry him a new falcon 
that you left the castle. But he never will scold you 

for not bringing it, and so we need not say anything 
more about it. But he must wonder that you 
were bringing him a falcon ; for how could you 
know he had none, when you left your mother's 
house before anything was said about his bird hav- 
ing been lost ? He must suspect you had some- 
thing to do with it." 

" Of course he does," said poor Louis. " I 
intended to tell him all about it when I should give 
him the new falcon ; but it will be harder to do 
it now." 

" Don't you say a word about it," said Agnes, 
who was really a kind-hearted girl, although she 
liked to talk about everything that was on her 
mind. "I '11 tell him myself. It will be easy 
enough for me to do it, and I can tell him better 
than you can, anyway." 

She did tell Raymond all about it, dwelling 
with much earnestness on Louis's sorrow for his 
fault, and his great desire to make amends for it ; 
but she found that Raymond cared very little about 
falcons. His mind was occupied with weightier 

" Louis is a good fellow, and a true one," he 
said, "although he often plays wild pranks, and 
the only reason I am sorry that he lost my bird 
is that it caused him such danger, and all of us 
such grief." 

"I like Louis better than Raymond," said 
Agnes to herself. "Raymond talks so much like 
a man, and he is n't half so. glad as he ought to 
be, now that his brother is saved from those 
dreadful robbers. If I were in his place, I 'd be 
singing and dancing all the time." 

The Countess sent for Jasto, and thanked him 
warmly and earnestly for bringing her son to her, 
instead of taking him back to the cotereaux, 

" If I could do it now," she said, " I should 
reward you handsomely for what you have done 
for me ; but, as I left my chateau for this place 
very suddenly, I have no money with me. How- 
ever, as soon as I shall have opportunity to send 
for some, I shall more than pay you for the trouble 
you have taken. Meantime, as your conduct 
shows that you wish to leave your companions 
and give up your evil ways, you can remain here, 
and I shall see that you receive fair treatment and 
are well employed. " And then, with a few more 
gracious words, she dismissed him. 

This was all very pleasant, for the Countess 
spoke so sweetly and looked so good that it greatly 
gratified Jasto to have her talk to him so kindly, 
and thank him for what he had done ; but still he 
was not satisfied. He had expected to make a 
regular bargain about a ransom, and hoped that 
Louis would have told his mother how much 
Michol was going to charge for his return ; but he 




found the boy had never mentioned the matter, 
and he did not feel bold enough, in his first inter- 
view with the Countess, to do it himself. He 
knew that he would be rewarded, but he felt sure 
that a lady would have no idea of the proper sum 
to pay for a page's ransom. If the pig had not 
eaten the letter her son had written, she would 
have been astonished indeed. He would wait, 
and, when the proper time came, he would let it 
be known that he expected ransom-money just as 
much as if he had kept the boy in some secret 
spot, and had made his mother send the sum re- 
quired before her son was restored to her. Mean- 
while, he was perfectly willing to remain in the 
service of the good Countess, and the first thing he 
asked for was a suit of clothes not composed of 
patches sewn together with bright red silk. And 
that he received without delay. 

Now that Louis was safe at the castle, the minds 
of the Countess and her friends were occupied 
with the great question of her safety. It was not 
to be expected that the officers of the Inquisition 
would give up their attempts to arrest the lady ; 
and although Barran's castle and Barran's forces 
might be strong enough to hold her securely and 
to drive back her persecutors, a contest of this kind 
with the Church was something not to be desired 
by the Count nor by his friends. Barran and Lanne 
were both of opinion that the safest refuge for the 
Countess would be England ; but a secret journey 
there would be full of hardships, and might compel 
her to give up all her property, and to be separated 
from her sons. 

It was hard to decide what to do, and at any 
day the officers of the Inquisition might appear 
at the gates of the castle. 

f To be continued. ) 

tiied Dick 
Who at drawLncr was clever atia. Quick - 
He used paper so -fact that he ran out at last 
So he drew on a paae of St. 




Under this general heading we propose to give, from month to month, some articles of especial interest to boys and girls, introducing 
them to various useful employments or ways of self-improvement, and also to novel sports, games, and entertainments. The papers for 
this department have been obtained from different sources: some of them are written by well-known writers, some by experts in special 
fields and some by wise boys and girls who, in solving their own difficulties or devising new pleasures for themselves, have hit upon 
expedients and diversions that are of value to young folk everywhere. 

We begin, this month, with a paper that will be welcome in many quarters, and upon a subject concerning which we have received 
many inquiries, viz. : " Silk-culture. " The achievements of Miss Nellie Rossiter in this home employment have gained honorable mention in 
the newspaper press, and have familiarized many of our readers with the fact that silk-culture offers a simple and easy method for boys and 
girls to make money. A great many young folk have had their curiosity aroused on this subject, but have had no means of learning how 
to begin and to conduct the work. This information, therefore, the accompanying article aims to supply, and we believe that it gives all 
the directions needed by earnest, active boys and girls for successful work in the line of silk-culture. 

We shall have more to say upon the subject in other numbers, having already in stock an account of the " Boys' Silk-culture Club," 
of Philadelphia, and the results achieved by a girls' organization in the same city. And if the industry prove a popular one with ourreaders, 
we may organize a St. Nicholas Silk-culture Club. We are prepared to make free distribution (under suitable guaranties) of as many 
as 200,000 silk-worm eggs among boys and girls who are subscribers to St. Nicholas, and who are ready to undertake silk-culture in 
good faith, and to render us reports in due time of the progress of their work. The present paper, which is written by an experienced 
silk-culturist, will show how much can be done by young folk in this new field. 

As indicated by the title, the new department shall vary work with play. So, next month, it will contain an illustrated article by Prof. 
H. H. Boyesen on " A New Winter Sport for Boys" — a stirring paper, introducing American lads to the use of the Norwegian " skees." 


Bv L. Capsadell, Sec. N. V. Silk Exchange. 

There is nothing remarkable in the appearance 
of this moth or butterfly, as you might call it. It 
is no larger than the white or yellow butterfly that 
flits over the mud in a country road, and not nearly 
so pretty, being of a grayish white, with small. 
black, bead-like eyes. 

It lives only twelve or fifteen days, eats nothing, 
can not fly or protect itself from enemies, and you 
may wonder what such a moth is good for ; but if 
you lived in China, Japan, Italy, or France, you 
would find it for the first three days of its life 
guarded with zealous care. In fact, in some coun- 
tries it is called the golden moth, for it is the means 
of putting gold into the pocket. 

It is said that, two thousand six hundred years 
before our Christian era, Si-ling-Shi, the wife of 
the Emperor Hoang-ti, finding that the skins of 
animals, with which the people clothed themselves, 
were growing scarce, looked about for some mate- 
ria! to take their place. Her search was unsuc- 

Vol. X.— 15. 

cessful until one morning, while taking her walk in 
the palace garden, she discovered some large worms 
spinning spider-like webs on the mulberry trees. 
She immediately conceived the idea of weaving 
these webs into a fabric. The wise men of the 
Orient were consulted, and finally a fabric was pro- 
duced which has since been called "silk." 

From that day. the wives and children of the 
poor and middle classes of many nations have 
derived a livelihood from the product of this little 
gray silk-moth, which hatches the worm that spins 
the silk. 

The rapid changes these silk-worms go through 
in six weeks are as amusing and wonderful as the 
tricks of a sleight-of-hand man, and if you want to 
get some fun and money out of your next summer 
holidays, you have only to obtain some silk-worm 
eggs and let them hatch. 

You must keep these eggs in a cool place till 
hatching time, or they will spoil. A cellar where 
the temperature does not rise above 40 degrees is a 
good place. 

The hatching season commences when the leaves 
come out on the mulberry and osage-orange trees, 
for you must know that the leaves of these are the 
proper food of the silk-worms. If your studies 
will not allow you to hatch the eggs at that time, 
put them in a perforated tin box, and ask the 
butcher to hang them in his refrigerator. They 
will keep in this way for quite a time. You can 
freeze them without harm, provided they are 




brought very gradually to higher temperatures for 

No, you do not put the eggs to hatch on the 
mulberry trees. You bring them into a room in the 
house, or into a shed or stable where it is clean and 
well ventilated, and spread them out on a news- 
paper, or on the bottom of a wooden tray made for 
the purpose. This wooden tray is much like the 
bottom of a square bird-cage, and you can easily 
make one. 

After you have placed the eggs as directed, heat 
the room to a temperature of 70 degrees, and in a 
few hours you will see a change taking place. The 
eggs grow gray, then blue, then white, with the 
exception of a small, moon-shaped black spot. 

Now look at this spot with your magnifying-glass, 
and you will see it is the head of a worm. 

In a few minutes some of these worms will sur- 
prise you by the rapidity with which they make 
their exit from the shell. And when they are out. 
you will observe, if your magnifying-glass is strong 
enough) that they are covered with short hairs like 
a caterpillar, and that they are fastening a little 
silky web to every object within their reach. 

The second day after you put your eggs to hatch, 
you will rind the paper or tray swarming with little, 
black, wriggling worms. You may judge how small 
they are when I tell you that the egg is not much 
larger than a mustard-seed. 

They are hungry now, and should be fed, but 
before doing so, make a frame, similar to a slate- 
frame with a strip through the middle, to fit into 
the tray. This frame should be covered with 
mosquito-netting, and placed over the worms. 
Now gather a few mulberry or osage-orange leaves, 
chop them fine, like smoking-tobacco, and sprinkle 
them over the netting. 

The worms will quickly crawl through the 
meshes to eat the leaves. 

Being so. small they will eat very little, but they 
should be given fresh leaves as soon as the old 
leaves become hard or dry. When giving them 
fresh leaves, put over the old frame another frame 
covered with netting. When the worms have crawled 
through, remove the first frame with the dried 
leaves. In this way you can easily change them 
from old to fresh food. They should be given four 
meals a day during the " first age." 

The trays must be changed and cleaned at least 
once a day. 

In three days all the strong worms will have 
hatched ; those born after this are apt to be weakly, 
and had better be thrown away. 

Each day those hatched should be removed and 
placed by themselves, with the date of their birth 
marked on the tray that contains them. Those 
first hatched should be placed in the coolest part 

of the room, and those latest hatched in the 
warmest. This will tend to equalize their growth 
and prevent the worms being of different sizes when 
their molting period comes, which occurs four 

Five or six days after the worms have hatched, 
they will prepare to shed their skins. 

This is called a molt. 

First Age. 



You will know when this period comes by their 
loss of appetite. They will become torpid, and 
look like small bits of rusty iron wire. If now you 
observe the worms carefully with a glass, you will 
see a black spot coming in front of the first joint. 
This is the growth of a new head, and the com- 
mencement of the shedding, which process is com- 
pleted so gradually that a whole discarded skin is 
rarely found. 

In twelve hours this period is over. The worms 
have passed their "first age," and enter with re- 
newed appetites into their "second age." 

This differs but little from the "first age." In 
it, however, they eat more and grow much larger. 



Before they enter the " third age," the netting 
must be removed from the frames and replaced 
with perforated paper. Each perforation should be 
large enough to admit a lead-pencil. 

You need not chop the leaves any more now, 
as the worms are able to eat them whole. 

Third Age. 



During the "fourth age" they consume an 
enormous quantity of food, and when their fourth 
and last molt comes they suffer acutely. Their 
sickness sometimes resembles death, and many of 
the soft, fat worms actually do die. 

They require at this time much care as to venti- 
lation and cleanliness. It is very important that the 
trays be changed daily, and the worms not handled 
with the fingers. If there is occasion, for lack of 



room or any other cause, to remove some of them 
to other trays, lift them with small, flat camel's-hair 
brushes or large leaves. 

When the molt of this " fourth age " is past, the 
critical period of the silk-worm's existence is over. 


In the fifth and last age, how much they will eat ! 
If you have many worms they will keep you pretty 
busy getting food for them, for 
not only leaves, but whole mul- 
berry boughs must be given 
them now. They are as greedy 
as pigs, and seem to live for 
nothing but to eat, eat, eat ! 
At this age you can even 
hear their jaws munching the 
leaves. But you must not mind 
this, for they are converting 
the leaves into a precious fluid, 
that soon will be poured from 
their mouths to make the beau- 
tiful silken cocoon, and the 
more they are fed, the firmer 
and finer will be their cocoons 
and the more abundant the silk. 

In about eight days after the 
beginning of the "fifth age" 
the worms, which never before 
showed the least desire to wan- 
der from their trays, become 
exceedingly restless, and wan- 
der aimlessly about, moving 
their heads in all directions. 

They are now looking for a 
convenient place to spin their 
cocoons, and if a place is not 
arranged for them, so that they may disgorge this 
silk fluid, they will die. 

The worm is now as large as your fin- 
ger, and of an ashy gray color. 

I have not yet told you that black ants 
are the silk-worms' mortal enemies, and 
that you will be sure to find them in 
your cocoonery. I think they are first 
brought in on the leaves, and you must 
keep a sharp lookout for them. They pinch and 
bite the worms until they kill them. If they get to 
the worms during the "first age," they may kill 


them all, for they are then so tender that one 
pinch or bite will prove fatal. 

Now that your worms are ready to spin, you 
must get ready the spinning-branches. These are 
bundles of dry twigs from which the leaves have 
been taken, or bunches of straw. The bunches 
should be as thick as your wrist, and about a foot 
long. Stand these bunches all about the trays, 
and bend their tops together in the shape of an 

The worms, as soon as they see the branches, 
will know what they are intended for, and will lose 
no time in mounting them. There may be found 
some who are too lazy to mount. Place some 
branches in the way of these, and when they have 
taken hold, stand the branch up. 

After the worm has mounted the branch, he 
commences throwing little silky 
webs from branch to branch. 
This is a sort of hammock in 
which he means to hang his 
cocoon. By and by he really 
begins work, moving his head 
quickly from side to side, and 
throwing the silken thread in 
the shape of the figure 8. 

If you could properly dissect 
a silk-worm, you would find 
in it a reservoir which contains 
the silk matter. From this res- 
ervoir proceed two glands that 
unite in the mouth. From 
them a fluid is poured forth 
which, hardening as it reaches 
the air, becomes a tiny silken 
thread, to be conducted and 
directed by the worm to the 
points it has selected. 

The worm moves its head 
more than sixty times a min- 
ute, or three hundred thousand 
times in making its cocoon. 

For some time after it has 
been spinning and has wound 
itself in the threads that have 
taken the shape of a cocoon, you can see it, dou- 
bled up like a horseshoe, hard at work on the inside. 


Finally the threads grow so thick that the worm is 
shut out from your view forever, and I am sure by 
this time you will feel a little tinge of sadness in 




saying good-bye, for it has been with you so much, 
and has been so intelligent, that it seems almost 

In four days it has expended all its silk fluid, 
and the cocoon is done. It will contain a thread of 
silk from six hundred to eight hundred yards long. 

You must let these cocoons remain on the spin- 
ning-branches for about eight days. At the end 

of that time, take them down and carefully strip 
them of their loose floss. Select the largest and 
finest, and string them on a thread about a yard 
long. This is done lay passing the needle lightly 
through the outside of the cocoon floss that still 
remains on it. Never pass the needle through the 
cocoon, as it would pierce the chrysalis and kill it. 
Then hang these threads in a cool, dark room, 
away from rats or mice. 

In about seven days more, you will awake some 
morning to find holes in your cocoons and a 
number of butterflies or moths, like those I first 
told you about, clinging to the walls and cocoons. 

Some of these will be males and some females. 
The males are smaller than the females and keep 
beating their wings. 

After about six hours, place the females on 

A cell is a little piece of muslin three by three 
inches, with- a string run through the top. A 
number of these should be prepared beforehand, 
and then stretched across the room. 

As fast as you separate the moths, place a 
female on each cell, darken the room and let them 
alone. In a few hours they will commence to lay. 
Each moth carefully deposits the eggs (which are 
covered with a sticky fluid that causes them to 
adhere to the cloth) side by side, and so on for 
about three days. The usual number of eggs each 
moth lays is four hundred, but they often lay as 
many as seven hundred. 

It will be well to occasionally pin a moth in the 
corner of a cell, so that the buyer of eggs can 
reduce it to powder and examine it for disease. 
Silk-worms have so far been subject to no disease 
in this country, but occasionally the precaution 
should be taken of examining a moth. The break- 

ing out of a disease among the silk-worms is a 
great affliction on the other side of the ocean. 

If you have had one thousand eggs to begin with, 
and these have produced five hundred females 
that have laid the average amount of eggs, you 
will find yourself the possessor of five ounces 
of eggs, worth at the lowest wholesale price two 
dollars per ounce, or twenty-five cents a thousand 
at retail, arid about four pounds of pierced cocoons, 
which, sold as waste, will bring fifty to eighty cents 
a pound. 

If you should want your cocoons for reeling, 
instead of reproduction, you should take them 
from the spinning-branches a few days after they 
are spun, and stifle them. 

Stifling is killing the chrysalis inside, so that 
it can not pierce the cocoon. The pierced cocoon 
can be carded, but not reeled. 

There are many ways of stifling, but solar rays, 

charcoal fumes, hot air, or steam are the most used. 

To stifle them by solar rays, they must be put in 

glass-covered boxes in the sun for several days, 

care being taken to stir them often. 

To stifle them by charcoal, they must be put in 
a bag, hung in a tight 
box from which the 
bottom has been re- 
moved, and then placed 
over a pot of burning 
charcoal. Bank earth 
about the box, and in 
twelve hours the work 
will have been accom- 

To stifle by hot air, 
you place them in an 
oven for half an hour. 
This is dangerous, for 
the cocoons are likely 
to scorch. 

To stifle by steam, you 
put them in a common 
steamer and steam as 
you would potatoes or 
a pudding. Thirty min- 
utes is long enough foi 
them to remain in the 

This last mode is said 
to be the best of all, 
as the steaming softens the gum and improves the 
luster of the silk. 

In all cases, after the cocoons have been stifled, 
they must be placed on a clean cloth, in a cool, 
airy room, and allowed to dry for at least ten days. 
They will mold and discolor if you do not dry 


i88 3 .] 



You should never ship them in a green state, 
before or after stifling, unless you are specially re- 
quested to do so, for they lose in weight for more 

T^^^^ i ^ '1 V^lQmSrf Jt rnirD^ '•■ 


than ten 
days, and 
the merchant 
to whom you ship 
will not weigh them 
or pay you for them 
till they are perfectly dry 

Four pounds or less can be sent in paper boxes 
by mail. Larger quantities should be sent by ex- 
press or freight. Pack them lightly in thin pine 
boxes, so that they will not be mashed or dented, 
for this prevents their reeling properly. 

If the cocoons are pierced, you may pack them 
as tight as you please. 

It will not be profitable for you to reel your 

cocoons yourself, for no matter how nice and smooth 
it looks to you, the manufacturer would find it very 
uneven. But you may want to do it for your own 
amusement, and so I will tell you how it is done. 

Of course, you must provide yourself with a reel, 
or invent one. I heard of a boy who put a 
wide band of leather over the upper wheel of 
a sewing-machine, which worked well. I believe 
this would do, for there you have the revolving 
wheel, and all you need is a flat, broad surface on 
the wheel to catch and wind the silk as it unwinds 
from the cocoons. 

Before reeling, you must throw the cocoons into 
hot water. Then take a portion of a whisk-broom 
and stir the cocoons, drawing the broom out of the 
water occasionally. The hot water softens the gum 
by which the thread adheres to the shell of the 
cocoon, and the rough broom catches the ends as 
they loosen. Then turn the wheel slowly, and with 
the thumb and forefinger start the ends around 
the wheel. If the threads break, twist them 
together and start them around again. When all 
the silk is unwound from the cocoons, slip it off the 
wheel and give it a twist and a knot, like a skein of 
sewing-silk. Should the silk snarl as it unwinds, 
you may know the water is too hot. 

This ends all that you can do with the reeling. 

As the pierced cocoons can be carded and spun 
in the same manner as cotton and wool, your grand- 
mothers, or other old people in your vicinity, can tell 
you how to do it, and even how to weave it into silk. 

Next year I hope to learn that many specimens 
of cocoons, reeled and spun silk have been on ex- 
hibition at the State and county fairs all over the 
United States — the work of the girls and boys 
who have read this article. 

By Malcolm Douglas. 

To spread his fame, I '11 sing about 

A little lad of ten, 
Who, with no weapon, put to rout 

An army of brave men ! 
The glittering troops attacked one day 

A quiet, sleepy town, 
And filled the people with dismay 

As swiftly they came down. 
They all prepared to hide or run. 

With faces ashen pale. 
All, did 1 say? \ T o, all save one — 

The hero of my tale. 

" Cowards ! " he cried, with flashing eye, 
'• They pillage and destroy, 
And yet you men stand idly by ! 

/ '// lead you, though a boy ! " 
He charged alone ; the troops stood still ; 

He bravely knocked them down ! 
And thus, by his heroic will, 

He saved the little town. 
Lest this you think be hardly true, 

It should be understood 
That, though the boy was real like you, 

The rest were made of wood ! 




By Hollis C. Clark (Aged Fifteen). 

The tiger is called the scourge of India. With 
many other wild animals, including deer, fowl, 
cattle, and wolves, he frequents the immense jun- 
gles of that country. Commonly, the tiger is shy 
and will run at sight of a man, but once in a 
while, having tasted human blood, he becomes 
doo loo shadweej as the natives say, when nothing 
but human flesh will satisfy him. 

When a tiger is known to be a man-eater, the 
natives in his neighborhood are in constant dread 
and terror. They either retire into their bamboo 
huts at sundown, and crouch trembling until day- 
break, or they light great bonfires and keep up a 
continual commotion during the night ; for when 
a tiger captures a person, he generally stays in the 
same vicinity until killed or entrapped, becoming 
bolder and bolder every day. A tiger has even 
been known to bound into a village in daylight, 
and, like a flash, dash away with his doomed prey. 

The news of a man-eater, however, is not an 
every-day occurrence, as the brute is supposed to 
obtain his first taste of human blood accidentally. 

The task of killing these blood-thirsty beasts is 
sometimes performed by Europeans, for the mere 
sake of the hunt and the subsequent glory of 
exhibiting the furry hide ; more often, however, 
by the shekarrys, or professional tiger-killers. 

The modes of operation of the latter are often 
very strange. Sometimes a stout bamboo cage, 
containing the tiger-killer (who will kill a doo-loo- 
shadwee tiger for thirty dollars) is placed in one 
of the well-trodden paths of the animal. The 
statue-like figure of the hunter sits motionless 
until the tiger, having scented him, springs on the 
cage and is dispatched by the spears of his antag- 
onist. A brave native has also been'known to let 
a tiger spring at him, and then, lightly bounding 
aside, dash a knife into his tawny body. 

The indolent natives, however, seldom hunt, ex- 
cept for a livelihood, or when accompanying Eng- 
lishmen, of whom there are large numbers in India. 

A few years ago, an English missionary, a friend 
of mine, was stationed at a small village in the 
midst of an almost in, passable jungle, extending 
for leagues inward. With one or two neighboring 
towns the village was connected by foot-paths, and 
from it a narrow road led to the railway station, 
distant three miles or more. 

One hot evening, as my friend was sitting before 
his two-story bamboo cottage (which was a source 



of admiration and wonder to the simple natives), 
enjoying some letters from home, which he had 
just received from a native guide and mail-carrier, 
he was startled by cries of fear, and a crowd of 
Hindus from a neighboring village rushed up and 
threw themselves at his feet, bewailing loudly and 
alternately imploring his aid and that of their 
heathen gods. Moreover, his own villagers 
became very much alarmed, and added to the 
tumult, while the guide, though excited, remained 
outwardly calm. 

As soon as Mr. Dawson could make himself 
heard, he inquired the cause of their trouble, to 
which the guide replied that a tiger had carried 
off a child from the new-comers' village, adding 
also, that as the town was now entirely deserted 
by the terrified inhabitants, part of whom were 
before him, some other village might now expect 
the tiger's attentions. 

Mr. Dawson was alarmed. This was the first 
time during his residence there that the peace of 
the little town had been disturbed. To add to 
this, his was the nearest village to the one recently 
attacked, and there was more than an even chance 
that it would be the next to suffer. It was with a 
feeling of dread, therefore, that he went to bed 
that night. He could not sleep, and was momen- 
tarily expecting the advent of the tiger. But noth- 
ing happened to break the night's stillness. 

In the morning, feeling somewhat relieved, he 
said to the guide (who was off duty for a week), 
" Well, Karsing, I guess the man-eater has missed 
us." This was said with an attempt to smile, but 
Karsing shook his head, and said shortly, " He 
may come yet." And come he did. 

In the evening, when one of the less timorous 
natives had gone a little distance from the huts to 
obtain some water, all were paralyzed by shriek 
upon shriek from the unfortunate man, upon 
whom the tiger had sprung. His pitiful cries grew 
fainter and fainter, as the blood-thirsty animal 
bounded away with him. Pursuit was useless, 
and another gloomy night was sleeplessly passed. 

The next morning the missionary sent one of 
the villagers to the station to send for a certain 
shekarry, who lived about twenty miles away, and 
who replied by telegraph that he would come and 
hunt for the tiger that afternoon. 

Meanwhile, Karsing (who was quite intimate 
with Mr. Dawson), to occupy his time, began 
overhauling some of that gentleman's "traps," 
which he brought with him from England, and 
had stored away. While rummaging in this 
manner, he came across an old, rusty musket. 
This he seized upon, and after cleaning and oiling 
it, took some powder and balls, and about noon 
went into the jungle, telling the servants about the 

house — as Mr. Dawson, at that time, was absent 
— that he would try to shoot something for dinner. 
They laughed at him, for he had never used cither 
gun or pistol, and told him that the man-eater 
would catch him. 

But Karsing was confident, for he had often seen 
others shoot, and as to being afraid of the tiger, 
he said that such beasts usually slept at that hour. 

When dinner-time came, the "hunter," as the 
natives derisively called him, did not appear. Mr. 
Dawson, who well knew that the guide was fully 
able to take care of himself, was in nowise alarmed, 
but was somewhat vexed because Karsing had not 
asked permission to use the gun. However, in 
the consideration of other matters he forgot about 
the affair altogether until later in the day. 

At two o'clock, the shekarry, with a companion, 
arrived, armed with rifle and knife. 

They immediately set out on the tiger's trail, 
starting from the point where the animal's latest 
victim had been seized the night before. As the 
tracks became plainer, they hurried on cautiously 
and quietly, when, all of a sudden, the loud report 
of a gun startled them. It could not have come 
from a point more than a quarter of a mile away, 
and in the deathly stillness of the tangled jungle 
it seemed still nearer. Immediately after it, a loud 
roar awoke the echoes, and the shekarrys, advanc- 
ing a few rods and parting the bushes, came upon 
the tiger, then in his death-struggles. He was 
roaring and lashing the ground with his tail, while 
in his open, frothy mouth the hideous teeth 
gleamed: finally, with a huge bound, he leaped 
into the air and fell dead. 

The tiger-killers were exceedingly surprised. 
Why had they been sent for to kill the tiger if it 
was probable that another would do it ? 

They approached the body and came face to 
face with Karsing, who appeared from the opposite 
side. The shekarry, very naturally, felt vexed and 
angry, and sullenly demanded, " Did you kill that 
tiger?" " Yes," replied the guide. 

"With that gun?" continued the questioner, 
espying the old musket. " Yes," replied Karsing. 

The two tiger-killers turned away with disgust 
and went back to the village, where they told the 
story to the wondering missionary and natives. 
Mr. Dawson paid them their expenses, and they 
went home. 

As for Karsing, he skinned the tiger and brought 
the hide home, where, after curing it for a month 
or more, he presented it to Mr. Dawson, who re- 
turned the favor by buying him a fine rifle. 

The missionary afterward found out that the 
sly fellow had set out that morning with the ex- 
press purpose of killing the tiger, which he had 
accomplished by a lucky chance shot. 





One cold clay, a la-cly looked from a win-dow down to the side-walk, 
and she saw there a lit-tle girl and a lit-tle boy. The girl had a brok- 
en sled, and on the sled there was a board that fell off if any-bod-y 
touched it and would n't stay on un-less it was held. 

Well, the lit-tle girl held the board just right, 
and made a quick jump and got on it, so that the 
board staid in place ; then she got off. and told the 
boy to jump on. 

He jumped. The board tipped, and the lit-tle 
boy fell on the side-walk. But the lit-tle girl picked 
him up, and brushed off the snow. Then the la-dy 
ac the win-dow slid up the sash, and this is what 
she heard the girl say : 

" Try a-gain, Jo ! That was too bad. Sis-ter is 
sor-ry. She will hold the board this time." So the 
board was a-gain put on the brok-en sled, and held 
un-til Jo was safe-ly on it. 

" Now, sit still, Jo, and I 11 give you a nice slide- 
ride," said the lit-tle girl. And then she picked up 
the rope and pulled. Up flew Jo's feet and he fell 
o-ver back-ward ; but he was not hurt much, and, af- 
ter an-oth-er brush-ing, the girl said, " Now, sit with 
your feet to the back : you can't tum-ble off that way." 

But he did. On-ly that time he fell on his face. 
Next he sat side-wise, with his feet hang-ing o-ver 

part of a run-ner. 

In this way he 
went safe-ly as 
far as a-cross a 
lit-tle room, but 
then board and 
boy once more 
The good sis- 
ter tried a doz-en times to give Jo a ride, but ev-ery time the old, brok- 
en sled threw him off. Still the lit-tle girl was pa-tient and kind, and spoke 
gent-ly, and took good care of her lit-tle broth-er. And that was bet-ter for 


both of them that day than a fine sled-ride would have been. For when 
they went a-way the la-dy o-pened the win-dow wide, and sent a big boy to 
fol-low them, and told him to come back and tell her the house the}' lived in. 

And then, that same day, she went out and bought a strong and pret-ty 
sled. Its name was " Gold-en Ar-row." 

Then, she went her-self to the house where the lit-tle girl lived, and 
asked for the lit-tle girl who had been try-ing to give her lit-tle broth-er 
a sleieh-ride that morn-intr. 

" |ulia! Julia ' " called her moth-er. " Here is a la-dy, ask-ing for you." 

Julia ran to the gate. 

" You were try-ing to draw a lit-tle boy on the side-walk in front 
of my house this morn-ing" — be-gan the la-dy, but she could not say an- 
oth-er word then, tor Julia was fright-ened and said: "Oh, ma'am, I did n't, 
I did tit mean to do any-thing naugh-ty." Then she be-gan to cry ver-y 
hard, and ran a-way. 

"What is it, ma'am, that my child has been do-ing ? " asked Julia's 

"She is a dood sis-ter," said lit-tle Jo. 

The la-dy smiled. "' I watched her this morn-ing," she said, " and she 

was so sweet and pa-tient that I wished to make her a pres-ent. And at 
my house there is a new sled for her, if she will come and get it." 

Pret-ty soon, Julia was at the la-dy's house, with Jo and three oth-er 
lit-tle broth-ers, and the "Gold-en Ar-row" made five chil-dren hap-py 
man-y days — for these chil-dren were real chil-dren, and it all hap-pened 
just like this sto-ry. 


T A C K - I N - T H E - P U L P I T . 



Another Year ! Welcome it, my people, and 
treat it as handsomely as you can. In twelve 
months it will slip aside, to take its place in the 
long line of years that have " passed away," as we 
say. But it will not pass away. It will stand there 
in line with the rest that you have known, and will 
greet you familiarly whenever you look back upon 
it — whether with smiles or frowns, or with too 
much of one and too little of the other, depends 
very much upon yourselves. 

Well, here we are, good 1883 ! Glad to see you, 
and ready to do our best. Your bright, fresh face 
is full of promise, and, in the name of big folk, 
little folk, snow-time, bloom-time, and harvest, 
Jack thanks you for coming ! 


Dear Jack: I am puzzled, and perhaps yon, or some of those re- 
markably bright young people known as your "chicks," can help 
me. I was sitting on the fence of the school-house yard, one morn- 
ing last week, watching the children as they passed in, when I 
heard the following scraps of conversation. Said one little boy to 
another: '" It 's the splendidest book ; the sailors were becalmed in 
the Doldrums for three weeks, and when they got out of them their 
water ran short." Well, I lost the rest of it: but " doldrums" was 
a new word to me, but I thought that if I listened I would hear it 
again soon : and, if you will believe me, I really did hear it again 
from the very next who passed. It was two large girls, this time, 
who are in the high-class. Said one of them : " We had the dole- 
fulest evening ; that poky old professor kept talking all the time, so 
that we could n't have a bit of fun, and we young folks were down 
in the doldrums all the evening." 

Now, dear Jack, I do not repeat these scraps of conversation to 
suggest that some adjectives are compared by more and most, 
though you might think so, but to inquire respectfully, Is there, 
really, such a place as the Doldrums, and did those speakers mean 
the same thing in using the expression? 

Your ever faithful friend, Snow Bunting. 

Here is your answer, dear Snow Bunting. The 
Little School-ma'am says : " ' The Doldrums ' is a 
name given by sailors to places in the ocean near 
the equator, in which calms, storms, and contrary 

winds abound. The boy used the expression in 
its literal sense ; the girl, figuratively." 


The children of the Red School-house had 
propped up the thing, as a great curiosity, on a 
mound, by my pulpit. Yes, there it was, as plain as 
day, a beautiful twig or spray, with the dear Little 
School-ma'am's label upon it — but I could n't do 
anything with my birds. They insisted that the 
things that /called flowers would soon shake their 
pretty wings and fly away. Yes. they were sure of 
it. In vain I protested, and even hit my pulpit 
hard with an imaginary fist. 

"Did you never hear of an orchid?" said I. 

'What kind of a kid? 
' An orchid ? " 1 re- 

we know 
and if this 
instead of 

we." said ^^?.| 

bees when 
1 plant does 

■A. ■ 

said they. 


they ; ' ' but 

we see them, 

n't bear bees 

we '11 give up." 



"That's just what 1 want," said I. "When 
folk who are mistaken give up, the battle is ended." 
And off they flew, quite sure that old Jack-in-the- 
Pulpit had made a mistake for once. 


Bless their bright little eyes and quick voices ! from the same place. It runs like the : ostrich, and, when frightened, 

,r r , ,i , , t j ... . ., -, makes off at a great pace. It takes a very fast dog to run it 

What SllOUld 1 do without them . down asthe Emu can keep up for a very long time: the dog gen- 

Yotl See, the little darlings have no dear Little erally gets tired and slinks away. It is a very inquisitive bird, and 

School-ma'am to go to, as I have; and good Mother even in , awil< J statc '. \ a VhTTV" Yl b r" nd a h "u and " e a 

piece of rag to a stick, and hold it out, the Emu would come run- 


Nature is SO fond of playing funny tricks ! ning up to see what it was. Emus are generally seen hereon the pla: 

Now, would n't it be' very queer if some of my walking in pairs, followed by their young family The mother-bird 
... ,, , i-i i i j i i ■ L ^1 ■ A j dues not make a proper nest, but just makes a hole in the ground. 

little human chicks should look at the picture and and )ays f ourte en or fifteen eggs, on which the birds, male and 
See only bees? Ah, but then thev Can find OUt female, sit in turn. The eggs are large. — not so large as those of an 
about orchids ! Very likely they '11 be writing tO ° S L r i C r H'~ a " d £* dark green color. Like the ostrich the Emu has 
- ' J t> a hardy stomach, and will swallow nails, buttons, and all sorts ot 

me about them before January has time tO roll Our queer things, without hurting itself, though in its wild state it 
moOll Once around the earth. lives chiefly on berries. They are easily tamed, as soon as they get 

acquainted. We are now living on the Darling Downs, Queensland, 

but in Riverina, — part of New South Wales, — where my papa used to 

THE EMU AT HOME. have a sheep station, he says there are a great many more Emu 

than here in Queensland. Papa says the Emu are very injurious 
My Dear Mr. Jack: I thought I would write you a letter to young lambs. They want to play with them; they chase them, 
about the Emu, as it is a native of Australia, where I live. The jump over them, knock them down, and roll them about. This 
Emu is a large bird, stands about five feel high, and is of a brown rough play often kills the poor little things. 
color; its feathers are small and double, — that is, two feathers grow Your constant reader, Wynnie Prudence Brodribb. 

-OH, THAT COMPOSITION!"*— The Committee's Report. 

In announcing our choice of a composition out of all that have been sent in response to our offer on page 982 of the October 
St. Nicholas, we are happy to acknowledge the surprising cordiality with which our plan to assist the young " compositioners " has been 
met. Parents and teachers everywhere have approved highly of the plan of offering St. Nicholas subjects; whole schools have been 
represented in the present competition ; and the letters accompanying the MSS. sufficiently attest its popularity with the boys and girls 
themselves. One friendly correspondent writes: " You have found a very interesting way of making difficult lessons seem like play " ; a 
candid young author says : "I hope you will give four subjects each month, for composition work is a very dull and horrid task to me, and 
I am very glad of anything to make it easier " ; and very many of the young writers insist that, whether their Tiger compositions be printed 
or not, the work has been its own reward, Indeed, the Committee rely upon the very general expression of this sentiment to aid them in 
making their report. It can be no easy task for any committee to decide easily and promptly upon the one very best out of hundreds of 
clever stories by clever young folk. In the case of these Tiger stories, it was quite impossible to choose one that was preeminent in all 
good qualities, for, however excellent in some points one of them might be, there were others quite as good — if not better — in other 
respects. But, on the whole, and after due deliberation, the Committee united in according the highest place to the composition by Hollis 
C. Clark, aged fifteen, as best fitting the picture and combining information concerning the tiger with a vivid story of a hunt. This compo- 
sition, therefore, appears on page 230 of the present number, in company with the original picture ; and a check in payment, at the rates 
promised, has been forwarded to the young author. In his letter accompanying the manuscript he says : *' I interpret the picture as I do, 
for the reason that the tiger is not in the attitude for pouncing upon the hunters, nor are the hunters in position for shooting the tiger." 

It must be remembered, as before stated, that among the compositions were others quite as good in many respects as the one we have 
chosen to print. At least twenty of the compositions crowded closely upon us in making a selection, and many others are so admirable, 
considering the ages of their authors, that we gladly extend the Roll of Honor to take them in 

Heartily thanking our young friends, one and all, for their interest and enthusiasm, we submit the above report to their attention, and 
offer four subjects for this month. 

The Year 1882 The Year 18S3 What I Saw on a Country Road What Makes Me Grow? 

As stated in the December number, we do not ask to see the compositions hereafter, excepting when we offer a picture in connection with 
a subject; but wc shall be glad if. in writing compositions, all who choose the St. Nicholas subjects will kindly let us know of the fact. 


Dollie Darrach — Mamie A. Collins — Mattie W. Baxter — Chas. Lee Faries — Evy Robinson — Margt. W. Lighton — Isa E. 
Owens — Dora Young — Carrie F. Lyman — Maude Linda Gilbert — Edie M. Arnold — Neddie Freeman — C. Herbert Swan, Jr. — Wyalt 
W. Randall — M. Josephine Collins — Kate H. Gillicuddy — S. Bessie Saunders — Mary E. Armstrong — H. C. Mather — Ursula Norman — 
George Weildon — Mary Paxson Rogers — Harry Milnes — Sarah T. Dalsheimer — Hilda E. Ingalls — Albert T. Ryan — Otto R. Barnett 

— Alice May Schoff — Charles Waddle — Carrie C. Coe — Blanche Walsh — Rannie C. Scott — David G. Wilson — Wm. R. Mclver — 
Madge L, Wendell — Florence Bradshaw — W. T. Stevenson — Katie Lloyd — Ralph Browning Fiske — Sallie E. Buck — " Sand-piper" — 
Marcellus L. Holt — Daisy O'Brien — Fannie G. Davenport — John Peck, Jr. — Mamie H. Wilcox — Mary May Winsor — Mary Josephine 
Shannon — Jessie Garfield — Frank D. Thomson — Harry Robertson — Lulu Thomson — C. M. Frazer — Helen L. Towne — Helen M. 
Brown — Sallie H. Williamson — E. Georgina Jackson — Charles Ellis — Maria W. Edgerton — Susie I. Harwood — Katie Jacobs — Emma 
Cole — J. H. Gorrell — Karl H. Machold — Jessie McGregor — Maye C. Boorman — Fannie Bogert — Annie W. Johnson — Wm. f. Dante 

— Sam Blythe, Jr. — W. H. Laurence — Walter E. Borden — Claude N. Comstock — Susie D. Huntington — Carl K. Friedman — Hattie 
P.Perkins — Louie F. Pitts — Mary K, Goodwin — Eva W. Eastman — Israel Joseph — Jessie Goodrich — Alice Robertson — H. E. 
Northup — Fannie Fauntleroy — Wm. Vance Martin — May Winston — Pace Winston — Alice C. Hegan — Hattie Venable — Emma 
Martin — Josephine Meeker— Hugo Diemer — Winnie Marsh — Etty Reeks — Olivia Kurtz — Lillian W. Hart — David W. Brant — Olive 
H. Causey— Grade E. Southworth — Mary Hutton — "Honor Bright" — Eliza M. Grace — W. C. Burkhalder — Chas. B. Gulick — Gracie 
Avery —James F. Berry — J. Buchanan — Powell Evans — Albert L. Taylor — Caryl D. Haskins — Fred. T. Sewall — Carleton W. Ginn 

— Daisy Carville — Harry Leonard — Evarts R. Greene — Lizzie Dye — Frank T. Brown — Isabel A. Beaumont — K. L. Terry — H. 
Kenner — B. W. — Edward B. Reed — Frank Munroe — Frances H. Catlin — E. L. Hunt — Susie Clark — Mame L. Wheeler — N. H. — 
Carrie A. McCreary — Grace Gallaher — Lulu Cumbach — Lulu M. Hutchins — Anna L. Roe — John Fred. Kennedy — Charlotte W. 
Hare — Stuart M. Beard — Mabel Guion — Aurelia Key — Mary Thompson — Sallie D. Rogers — Harriette R. Horsfall — Harry B. 
Sparks — Clara Burr — "Phyllis" — Gertrude M. Doughty — Asa B. Priest — Mary M. Ehlers — Horace Wylie — Lessie MacGregor — 
Elsie M. Kittredge — Rowland G. Treat — Dudley Ganst — Kitty Williamson — Jos. H. Sutton— James R. Danforth, Jr. — Robt. I. 
Brown — -Anna May Bristol — Anna B. Cordo — E. W. Mumford — Maggie L. Bawgan — -Julia Abbey — Gertrude Hascall — Jeannette 
B. Gillespie — Katie R. Elliott — Gracie L Thayer — Lillian Byrne — B. C. P. — Helen Stapleton — A. Klouber. 

* See St. Nicholas for October, page 082, and for L>ecember, page 156. 





The Children's Garfield Fund. 

It is pleasant to know that, up to the present date, nearly five 
hundred dollars have been contributed through this magazine to 
the Children's Garfield Fund for the benefit of the poor and sick 
children of New York. The amounts received since our report in 
St. Nicholas for June, 1882, aggregate $63.77. $i6.2S of this 
sum was sent by a club of young girls, — "a little society of six 
members," — with the following letter: 

" Dansville, N. Y., Nov. 11, 18S2. 
"Dear St. Nicholas: We have had a little society of six 
members, and have worked for six months for the 'Garfield Home.' 
"November 10th we had a little fair ; sold the things we had made, 
and ice-cream and cake. We invited our friends, and made the sum 
of $16. 2S, which we inclose. 

" Please acknowledge the receipt of it, either through the St. 
Nicholas or in any way convenient. 

" Yours truly, The Garfield Home Societv. 
" Fanny Grant, Pres. Fanny Pratt, Sec. 

Helen Edwards, Treas. 
" Members : Dora Voorhees, Alice Grant, Carrie Pratt." 

to see how many of us would watch for a year, and at the expira 
tion of that time give way to disappointment. 

At first, 1 thought that, if such an event should transpire, the Sat- 
urday would be the one on which I wished to do something that 
particularly required clear sunshine all day. It seemed, at school, 
that there never was a Saturday upon which it did not rain ; but not 
having heard that there was but one Saturday in the year on which 
the sun does not shine, I took no special note of the sunshine. 

Upon several Saturdays during the past summer, I have seen 
only about five minutes' sunshine, and that just as the sun was setting. 

But, at last, I have found the one Saturday. That one was the 
21st of October, 18S2. Our faithful watchman failed that day to give 
us a ray of sunlight in this city. I watched, particularly, all day, 
and saw no ray whatever. 

It is a good thing you did not offer a reward to the one first notic- 
ing that fact, because others before me would have likewise been 
nmicing, and, in all probability, would have secured the prize. At 
any rate, I feel amply repaid for my trouble in learning this one fact, 
that the sun failed to shine on one Saturday in the year 1882, but 
whether the maxim holds true or not remains to be proven ; and as 
there has been so little trouble thus far, I will continue to watch the 
balance of the year, with the hope that I will find one more Satur- 
day like the one just passed. Let others of your readers do likewise. 
Your constant reader, J. R. S.,Jr. 

Now, girls and boys, who will start another club to raise the 
twenty dollars and twenty-one cents that are needed to swell the 
Children's Garfield Fund to $500? 

For full particulars, see St. Nicholas for November, 1881, and 
July, 1882. 

Readers of this number who also have read "The Story of 
Tinkey," printed in St. Nicholas for July, 1882, will find an in- 
creased pleasure in the capital tale " Fairy Wishes Nowadays," on 
page 166, as the same "Tinkey" is the hero of the two stories, 
although each is complete in itself. 

Fort Worth, Texas, Nov. 3, 1882. 
Dear St. Nicholas: I think that the piece called "A Happy 
Thought; or, Olive's Game," is a very good one. My sister and 
I tried it, with success. Mamma wrote the names on some slips of 
paper, and my sister and I think of playing it every day. I hope 
all the readers of St. Nicholas will try it. 

Your interested reader, Carrie Stewart. 

Thanks, Carrie. The game is a good one, and we join in your 
wish that it may become very popular with St. Nicholas boys and 

By an oversight, the two jingles, "The Iron-clad Pie" (in the 
August number) and "Oh, What Are You at, Little Woman ? " (in 
the October number) were credited solely to Mr. L. Hopkins, in 
our Tables of Contents for those months, when in reality they were 
drawn by Mr. Hopkins, at our request, from suggestions by Mr. A. 
W. Harrington, who furnished the text of the verses and hints in 
outline for the pictures. We gladly make this correction, in justice 
to Mr. Harrington, and extend to him our apologies for the mistake. 

Jack-in-the-Pi:lpit's "Cloudy-Saturday" question continues to 
agitate several of our readers, as the following interesting letter 
shows. J. R. S-, Jr., evidently intends to settle the matter beyond 
a doubt — if he can. Well, we shall be glad to hear from him again, 
and from all the others who are keeping a close eye on the Saturday 
styles of weather. But hearwhatj. R. S., Jr., has to say already: 

Dear St. Nicholas: In the Jack-in-the-Pulpit pages of your 
magazine, I read some time ago a statement that there is but one 

Saturday in the year on which the sun does not shine. Since reading, 
I have carefully dotted all the Saturdays on the almanac, and have 
been watching' to see if you really meant what you printed for us. 
I have been very much afraid lest you were joking with us, just 


We are glad to present to our readers this month the accompany- 
ing excellent portrait of Mr. J. T. Trowbridge, author of many 
popular books for boys, and of the fine story, " The Tinkham Broth- 
ers' Tide-Mill," now appearing as a serial in this magazine. It is 
the fourth continued story which Mr. Trowbridge has contributed 
to St. Nicholas, and we are sure it will prove quite as stirring and 
entertaining as "Fast Friends," " The Young Surveyor," or "His 
Own Master." We congratulate our readers, therefore, on the treat 
that is in store for them during the year, and, also, on being made 
familiar at the outset with the genial face of their old-time friend. 



2 37 

The following letter, from two San Francisco girls, came to us 
before the issue of the December number, which contained Mr. 
Holder's article on " The Discovery of the Mammoth." Now that 
they have seen Mr. Beard's interesting picture of " The Mammoth 
of St. Petersburg,'' which accompanied that article, perhaps Maud 
and Ethel will tell us how nearly the big fellow in the drawing re- 
sembles the mammoth of San Francisco. If, as they say, the latter 
was found in the ice in the River Lena, Siberia, there ought to be a 
family likeness between the two huge creatures, as the Shumarhoff 
mammoth also was discovered in the ice near the same river. 

San Francisco, Cal. 
Dear St. Nicholas : We thought you would like to hear of a 
mammoth elephant we have here under the Mercantile Library. It 
is twenty-six feet high, and twelve feet from its tail to the end of its 
tusks. It is said that it resembles a larger one in the British 
Museum. It was found frozen in the ice in the River Lena, in 
Siberia. There are other large animals there, under the Library, but 
none so great as this one. The people of San Francisco are very 
much interested in it. From your constant readers, 

Maud and Ethel (aged ten and twelve). 

A Good Suggestion. 

Here is an excellent and timely suggestion from F. H. P., concern- 
ing a good after-use for Christmas-cards. Used in the manner de- 
scribed, these pretty cards would no doubt form a very decorative 
screen, and would, at the same time, retain their value as souvenirs, 
and be kept in sight through a great part of the year as reminders 
of the joyous Christmas time, and of the friends from whom they 

Dear St. Nicholas: As there probably are a great many boys 
and girls who would like to put their Christmas-cards to a perma- 

nent use, I give below a description of a fire-screen that I have 

just completed, which is very pretty : 

Width, 3 feet. 


description : 

Take two sticks, 5 ft.x3 in.xJ4 in. ; three sticks, 3 ft.x3 in.xi in. ; 
make a frame like diagram, cover the frame with strong but lighl 
canvas, paste the cards on the canvas, taking care to arrange them 
in good taste, and your frame is complete. F. H. P. 


The latest number on our register is 4460, showing a gain of 300 
during the month of October. To me, the most surprising and 
gratifying thing about the growth of our "A. A." — for which, by 
the way. its members are coming to feel a strong affection — is the 
steadiness of its development We should have anticipated that, 
upon the first proposition for such a Society two years ago, hundreds 
of letters would instantly have deluged our desk, and that there- 
after few, if any, new drops would have fallen. Instead of that, the 
number at first was very small — discouragingly small; but each 
week continued to bring its quota of new recruits, and, during the 
whole time, volunteers have sent in their names with such regu- 
larity that our mail has rarely exceeded twenty letters per day, and 
rarely fallen short of six. We can now predict, with some confi- 
dence, that three new Chapters will be formed each week. The latest 
pleasant "turn" is the growing interest taken in our Association by 
teachers and superintendents of schools, who see in the "A. A." a 
practical and practicable solution of the question, " How can Natural 
History be Introduced into the Public School?" 

The prospects of the Society were never so favorable, and with 
renewed thanks to the many friends who have given us valuable 
assistance in answering the questions of our four thousand little 
questioners, we hopefully begin T8S3 with the addition of the follow- 
ing new Chapters: 





Name. Memb, 

Webster Groves, Mo. (A). 39.. 

Boston, Mass. (C) 6. . 

Baltimore, Md. (D) 6. . 

St. Paul, Minn. (D). ... 6.. 
Georgetown, D. C. (C) . . 5.. 

Granville, O. (A) 5. . 

BeverTy, N. J. (A) 12. . 

Beverlv, N. J. <B) 5.. 

Brooklyn, N. Y. (D) .... 6.. 
Little Rock, Ark. (B)... 16.. 

Little Rock, Ark. (C). . . ,40. 

Washington, D. C. (F) . .14. 

Secretary's Address. 
Mary E. Reavis, Box 113. 
Annie Darling, 47 Concord Sq. 
Fannie Wyatt, 223 Md. Ave. 
Fred. Spaulding, Box V. 
M. A. McPherson, 1623 28th 

St., N. W. 
Mabel S. Owen. 
Alice T. Carpenter, Box 88. 
Wm. A. Ker. 

Frank E. Cocks, 176 7th St. 
R. H. Taylor, Room 6, Benj. 

Clara E. Davis, cor. 20th and 

Center Sts. 
May Sypher, 1509 R. I. Ave. 

No. Name. 

37S. Ambler, Pa. (A) 

379. Andover, Mass. (B) 

380. Cedar Rapids, la. <C 

381. Anderson, Ind. (A).. 

382. Brooklyn, N. V. (F) 

383. Chicago, 111. (L) ... 

Members, Secretary's Address. 

. . .26. .Jessie P. Smith, Upper Dublin 
.5. .Albert J. Shaw. 
. . .10. .Eddie Boynion. 

. 6 . Frank Sharp. 
. . . 8. .Jeannie Van Ingen, 122 Remsen 

. .. 6 .Win. V>. Jansen, 1236 Wabash 

Reports from Members, Chapters, and Friends. 

We have five hundred specimens in our cabinet. 

Annie B. Boardman, Sec, Augusta, Maine. 

Shells from the Azores, agates from Lake Superior, for shells, 
cotton in the pod, or red coral. 

Isabella Kellogg, 56 Davenport St., Detroit, Mich. 

1 have collected this summer more than two hundred species oi 
insects, besides several salamanders, snakes, and frogs. 

W. B. Olnev. 

One evening, I accidentally looked through a pigeon's feather at 
a gas-flame, and saw the prismatic colors reflected in several smaller 
flames. In light colored or white feathers the flames were very 
plainly seen, but in dark or black feathers they were very dim. 

Mary Ridgwav. 

Magnetic iron, barytes, iron pyrites, buhr-stone, for crystals, talc, 
tourmaline, fossils, calc-spar. 

L. E. Tuttle, 5 Kimberly Ave., New Haven, Conn. 


A. If a moth, note : tst. Thzjbrjn of the antenna;, whether pecti- 
nated or simply hairy or spindle-shaped 2d. The form and size of 
palpi and length of tongue. 3d. Wings: 1st pair, form, shape of 
costal, apex, outer edge veins. 2d pair same. 4th. Markings on 
wings. 5th. Feet, spurs. 

B, If a caterpillar, note: 1st. Form of head, wider or narrower 
than segment next. 2d. Dorsal, subdorsal, and lateral stripes. 3d. 
Position of tubercles, warts, or spines, and spots. 4th. Spiracular 

2 3 8 



line. 5th. Supra-anal plate ; its form and rriarkings. 6th. Number 
of abdominal legs and form nf last pair. 

These are the kind of questions that should be answered. 

A. S. Packard, Jr. 

[This kind note from Prof. Packard should be attentively con- 
sidered by the entomologists of the " A. A." They will see that the 
color and markings of moths are by no means the chief characteris- 
tics to be noted. J 

Madison, Wisconsin. 
We have had two field-meetings : one of them on the shores of Lake 
Monona. This was in charge of Prof. E. A. Birge, who found for 
us fresh-water sponges. We found leeches, water-fleas, caterpillars, 
minnows, snails, and frogs. Then we all went into the woods, and on 
a stump he began to show us a water-flea and a little leech. We 
could see its heart beating and its blood circulating. 

Very respectfully, Andrew Allen. 

But the best of all, and that for which I want sincerely to thank the 
" A, A," and its projector, is the result of the work in one particular 
case. As a teacher, you know how difficult it is to do just the best thing 
with a roguish, careless boy, smart, but caring little for study and 
with little or no will to work. Geology last year and chemistry this, 
prepared him for an elementary course in determinative mineralogy. 
This he has undertaken, under the guise of association work, and to 
this we largely attribute a most wonderful improvement in the boy. 
Spare moments are spent in the laboratory instead of in mischief; he 
has begged to return to Latin, which he' had dropped, and bids fair 
to stand at or near the head of his class in that and other studies. 
Instead of lawless lounging at recess, he is quiet and gentlemanly. 

A Friend. 

Greenwich, Conn., Nov. 8, 1882. 
One day, as I was taking a walk, I saw something traveling along, 
and looking more closely I saw it was an ant carrying a heavy load, 
which proved to be a worm. The worm was very large and the ant 
very small, so that it could hardly drag the worm. Pretty soon it 
dropped it and hurried away into a large hole. It came back pretty 
soon, and following it was a body of ants in a square about an inch 
wide and long. The first ant was yellow and the rest black. The 
yellow ant took them to the worm, and they quickly tore it to pieces 
and carried it to their hole. I am twelve years old. 

Bessie Young, 

St. Paul, Minnesota. 
One cabinet is full and we could fill another. We have 8 kinds of 
coral, 10 kinds of minerals, 141 kinds of shells, 7 nests, and an eagle's 
foot, 9 sea-urchins, 3 Aristotle's lanterns, 2 starfish, 35 petrifactions, 
5 kinds of crystal, mica, salt from Salt Lake, teeth of a cow and shark, 
sea-beans, and a sand-dollar, and are soon to have a stuffed bittern on 
top of our cabinet Sidney Farwell, Chap. 139. 

Westtown, N. Y. 
We have had only one meeting in six weeks, and why ? Because 
those who are not willing to do anything for the good of the Chapter 
wont let us do anything. They talk and laugh boisterously, and 
that, too, about things altogether out of place. Don't you think the 
best thing to do is to break up the Chapter and then re-organize? 

[It is not so easytoadvise youfrom so great a distance, and having 
heard but one side. If you can not induce members to preserve order 
in your meetings by gentle means, you might try the effect of a fine 
of five or ten cents. If this fails, try suspension ; if that wont do, 
resort to expulsion. If you who love order are in a minority, quietly 
withdraw from the Chapter and organize another] 

Warren, Maine, Nov. 14, 1882. 
We have taken up geology, and have had discussions on "The 
formation of the earth," "Rocks," "Habits and uses of angle- 
worms." There was a lively discussion on the theories of the 
interior of the earth, whether it is solid or liquid. Will some one 
tell us how to distinguish stratified from unstratified rock ? 

H. V. Starrett. 

Belpre, Ohio. 
We are all the time a Electing and reading everything of interest. 

Fannie Rathbone. 

Beauclerc, Fla., Nov., 1882. 
I have collected some very fine specimens of Indian pottery. [The 
"A. A. "does not take note of other than natural objects.] I observed 
a mosquito fighting its shadow. It would jump up, and bite at it, 
and then rest awhile, and go at it again. [Please describe the 
operation of " biting" more fully! ] In last St. Nicholas, someone 
says mistletoe grows chiefly on apple trees. That is wrong. For 
here you can see it on any water oak, and often on the wild plum 
and prickly ash. F. C. Sawyer, 

Chicago, Oct. 29th. 
We have made an excursion to a place called Stony Island, and 
have brought back any quantity of iron pyrites, calcite, and a few 
orthoceras; also a kind of fossil shell like the common "scallop," 
only not having that " hinge." Our president, Graham Davis, 3044 
Lake Park Ave., will exchange iron pyrites, copper ore, calcite, and 
fossils, for rare fossils. 

North Erookfield, Mass. (Sec. H. A. Cooke), finds "a pool of 
water one of the best places for exploration," and wishes to know : 
1. What is a " hair- snake " ? and 2. What is a goby ? Providence, 
R. I. (Sec. Miss M. W. Packard), means to learr. as much as 
possible. Each member writes compositions on natural objects 
They have foiind the names of all their moths themselves, "without 
Papa telling us"; and all were acquainted with Prof. Agassis at 
Penikese Island. [That is the kind of work the "A. A." delights in 
— original obseri<atiou of natural objects. \ 

Oxford, N. C.,Sept. 24, 1882. 

Can any of your young naturalists inform me what this strange, 

worm-like animal is? The inclosed drawing is just the size of the 

animal from which it was copied, though I have frequently seen 

them as long as eight inches. It is bluish-green, with orange- 

colored head and tail. There are several jet black spots on its head 
and a black spot on each segment of the body, with an underlying 
white one. They fall from the hickory trees in our yard, and I have 
heard them strike the ground fifty yards away. 

I corresponded with the Professor of Natural History in one of our 
universities concerning it, but he insisted that I was trying to palm 
off a snake story upon him, and would have nothing to do with it, 
thinking I was tampering with his credulity. If it is a larva, I am 
ignorant of the moth it forms. Very truly yours, J. W. Hays, Jr. 

[The drawing reproduced above is a picture of the larva of the 
regal emperor moth {Citheronia regalis), figured in Harris, p. 401, 
also in the first volume of the A merican Entomologist. Dr. A. S. 
Packard, who takes a very kindly interest in the "A. A.," and to 
whom I referred this question, writes that this caterpillar is very rare 
in New England, but that he found a small one in Maine this sum- 
mer on the pitch-pine. ] 

Geneva, N. Y. (Sec. Miss N. A. Wilson), challenges the "A. A." 
to show a larger hornet's nest than one which graces its cabinet. 
Length, from crown to tip, twenty-six inches; circumference, forty- 
oneand one-half inches. " The children are very anxious to know if 
there is a larger one." Mr. Fred. F. Richardson writes : "Please 
tell Mr. Hammond, Sec. 224, that his caterpillar is one of the basket- 
carriers or sack-bearers, described in Harris, pp. 413-18. Prof. 
Riley also tells of them in the first of his Missouri reports, and in 
No. 138 of the Supplement to the Scientific American, Mr. W. H. 
Gibson gives a very interesting account of these curious insects, 
which he calls a 'fatherless and motherless race.'" The Sec. of 
Denver, Col., is Mr. Ernest L. (not M.) Roberts. St. Louis (Sec. 

C. F. Haanel, 1131 N. 20) wishes to exchange minerals, fossils, and 
coral. One or two Chapters write of raffles, of which we totally 
disapprove, and which are quite opposed to the spirit of a true natu- 
ralist. Miss Jeannie Cowgill, Spearfish, Black Hills, Dakota Ty., 
will exchange ores, iron pyrites, velvet rock, and petrifactions, for 
sea-shells, crabs, and sea- weed. Henry L. Mitchell, 115 W. Thir- 
teenth, N. Y. City, will exchange minerals for eggs. Georgetown. 

D. C. (F. P. Stockbridge), will exchange petrified wood for 
insects. E. H. Schram finds "on the oak an insect, one-quarter- 
inch long, slate, with rows of small black dots; some winged, some 
not. The insects covered the branch for about a yard, and appeared 
to be depositing eggs. The eggs are cylindrical, one-eighth inch 
long, brown, shiny, and covered with a sticky substance. The 
insect is a prey to a little gray worm, with head tapering to a point, 
which it thrusts into the body of the insect and sucks it dry. Please 
give us any information." [The insects are probably Aptidcs, and 
the "little gray worms" the larva? of certain flies — perhaps of the 
genus Coccinella or Syrphus. Any more definite information will be 
welcome.] Flint, Mich., A. (Sec. Miss Hattie A. Lovell), is having 
very interesting meetings. " Even Harry, who is only eight, brings 
in reports, and tells them like a sage. When I asked him where he 
had learned so much about spiders, he said: 'Oh! Hatt, there 
are lots of spiders' webs between the leaves, on the way to pasture.' " 
[No copying unintelligible words from an encyclopedia for that 
boy's reports ! ] 



Right glad are we to hear again from Mr. Daniel E. Moran : 

" I am just back from a trip to the North Woods — a wilderness 
of spruce, hemlock, beech, and birch, with an occasional pine 
towering up into the air. My trip was partly on business, but 
as I carried my gun on my shoulder for eightdays, tramping through 
the woods, now following an old ' trail' by half-obliterated blazes, 
now running solely by the needle, scrambling through the under- 
brush, or following the deer trails, you can imagine I managed to 
sandwich in a good deal of fun. 

" I shot my first deer — the only one I saw ; I heard a bear crashing 
through the brush, and as for tracks and traces, they were every- 

"Birds were scarce in the deep woods A ruffed grouse now ard 
then thundered up ahead, making my fingers ache to fire. The 
red-eyed vireo was, perhaps, the most common song-bird. I did 
not see a single robin, but heard two: one, as we were floating for 
deer, made such a racket in the woods that T do not doubt some 
owl was committing a bloody deed of murder. 

"1 shot a young pileated woodpecker (Hyloiomus pilealus), 
a bird new to me and found only in deep forests. Shot, also, an 
olive-backed thrush ; but there is just now such confusion and con- 
tention about this and allied forms, that I feel very doubtful what it 
is. I could not keep either skin, but kept the skull and bill of the 

In closing this paper, I will make a suggestion with reference to 
Reports from Chapters. Those Chapters please us best which do 
not merely say, "We are doing well — we have so many specimens. 
We have gained three members. Yours truly"; nor yet those 

others, happily few, which send us weary sheets, copied or remem- 
bered from previous reading; but those which, after a concise state- 
ment of their progress, proceed to tell something of interest which 
their eyes have seen and their hands handled. They tell us what 
methods of work they find most profitable. They ask intelligent 
questions. You will find their reports in St. Nicholas. 

In sending reports, kindly write requests for exchange on a sepa- 
rate slip of paper, marked " Exchange," and in giving your address, 
add always the number and letter of your Chapter. The geode ques- 
tion has proved too difficult, and as Agassiz, whose name we bear, 
used to find his highest delight in tracing in Nature the hand of a 
Heavenly Father, I propose for our next subject, "Evidences of 
Design in Nature." 

Let each Chapter have competitive papers written on this subject. 
From these, let each President and Secretary, as a committee, select 
the one which, in their judgment, is best, and send it to me. A good 
microscope in a case shall be sent to the Chapter which furnishes 
the best paper, and the paper, with writer's name, shall be printed in 
St. Nicholas. This Chapter will then be considered the " Banner 
Chapter" of the "A, A." until the next competition. Every paper 
must be strictly original, and not exceed six hundred words. 

All communications regarding the " A. A.," including all reports 
heretofore sent to W. P. Ballard or M. J. Taylor, must be addressed 
to Harlan H. Ballard, 

Principal of Lenox Academy, Lenox, Mass. 



Arabi Bev, the wily rebel, 
Tried hard to win his fell designs; 

But brave Sir Garnet stopped him shortly. 
And thus the rebel fain resigns. 

Come, bright young friends, I 've given a 
Sir Garnet W'olseley well might name; 

If read first backward, then read forward. 
It forms a motto none will blame. 

and make a contrivance for illuminating. 7. Transpose a very 
small opening, and make a heavy cord. S. Transpose prosecuted 
by legal process, and make utilized. 9. Transpose epochs, and 
make a learned man. 10. Transpose bad, and make the third son 
of Jacob and Leah. n. Transpose adapts, and make to separate 
by a sieve. 12. Transpose labels, and make a hart. 13. Transpose 
certain trees, and make to drench. s. F. 



I AM composed of sixty-two letters, and am a quotation from 
Shakespeare's play of Henry IV. 

My 24-51-5-32 is part of a sword. My 40-12-27-36-18-8 is a 
bird similar to the thrush. My 46-59-25-62-14 is aroused. My 43- 
29-50-33 is an ornament for the lower part of a wall. My 13-1-54-7 
is to desire. My 17-55-37-31-58-22 is a clergyman. My 34-60- 
26-16 is part of the foot. My 56-6-19-23 is a fleet animal. My 35- 
49-45-4 is to take the rind from. My 47-38-41-28-20 is to 
examine closely. My 3-42-10-61-48 is watchful. My 2-21-57 >- ; 
suitable. My n-39-15-30 is twisted toward one side. My 44-53- 
52-9 is a float. carrie e. Andrews. 


Do you visit my Jirst to-night"? 
Then awhile at my second tarry; 

That no thought may oppress 

In regard to your dress, 
And my whole please remember to carry. 

The diagonals, beginning from the top, spell the name of a 
famous writer. 

Cross-words: i. Always. 2. Part of a prayer. 3 A vegetable 
growth. 4. At hand. 5. Repose 6. A military building. 7. A 
refuge for songsters. highwood. 


Take two-fifths of the letters in nnc of the New England States; 
one-ninth of a State in which a great river rises; two-elevenths of a 
State bearing the same name as a river; one-sixth of a mountainous 
New England State; one-ninth of a State bordering on Lake Supe- 
rior; and one-seventh of a State that was admitted into the L'nion in 
1819. The letters represented by these fractions, when rightly 
selected and arranged, spell a name in which all the readers of 
St Nicholas are interested. B. L. T. 


When the following transpositions have been rightly made, 
place the words one below another in the order here given, and 
the diagonals (beginning at the first letter of the first word, and 
ending with the first letter of the last word) will spell what every one 
is pleased to receive. Each word contains four letters. 

1. Transpose gone, and make a small lizard. 2. Transpose an 
aquatic fowl, and make to lease. ?,. Transpose small tumors, and 
make information. 4. Transpose a city in the State of New York, and 
make one ot the party which opposed the Whigs. 5. Transpose 
part of a boat, and make a vegetable. 6. Transpose a tropical tree, 


My firsts are in just, but not in right; 

My seconds in dark, but not in light; 

My thirds are in Naples, but not in Rome; 

My fourths are in country, but not in home; 

My fifths are in rapid, but not in fleet; 

My sixths are in corn, but not in wheat; 

My sevenths in young, but not in old; 

My wholes, they come when the air is cold; 

For a month is my first; my second the boys 

Enjoy with much merriment, frolic, and noise. 






Rhomboid. Across: i. A woman who is bereaved of a hus- 
band. 2. One of a wandering tribe. 3. Having a tide. 4. The 
higher of the two kinds of male voices. 5. Heavy vapor. 

Downward: i. In winter. 2. Two-thirds of a tavern. 3. A 
very small spot. 4. To leave out. 5. Walks through water. 6. A 
depression caused by a blow. 7. A kind of deer. 8. Two-thirds 
of a troublesome rodent. 9. One thousand. 

Included Double Diamond. Across: i. In swords. 2. En- 
raged. 3. Having a tide. 4. A number. 5. In swords. 

Downward: i. In debtor. 2. Three-fourths of a minute object. 
3. Walks through water. 4. A cave. 5. In debtor. H. H. d. 


The primals name a day of amusement; the finals, a gift. 

Cross-words : 1. A fibrous plant whose bark is used for cordage. 
2. An eloquent public speaker. 3. A narrow way or passage. 4. 
A bird highly venerated by the ancient Egyptians. 5. A sluggard. 
6, A mechanic. 7. A sea-going vessel used only for pleasure trips. 



How many people are represented in this picture? 

I. From i to 3, to foment; from 2 to 4, is inanimate; from 3 to 
5, to twist out of shape; from 4 to 1, a dull color; from 5 to 2, a 
name by which the leopard is sometimes called; from 1 to 4, a min- 
strel; from 2 to 5, a French word meaning cloth. 

II. From 1 to 3, walked; from 2 to 4, rended; from 3 to 5, por- 
trayed: from 4 to 1, tidy; from 5 to 2, something often seen on a 
boy's hand. c. a. m. 


Illustrated Puzzles in the Head-piece. Some colors fur 
Christmas: j. Olive. 2. \ ellow. 3. Blue. 4. Gray. 5. Crimson. 
6. Pink. 7. Cobalt. 8 Brown. 9. Orange. 10. White. 11. 
Green. 12. Purple. A Greeting: By taking the first letter of the 
first line, the first letter of the second line, the second letter <>f 
the first line, the second letter of the second line, and so on to the 
end, the following sentence is formed: ''To all our young puzzlers 
we extend a hearty Christmas greeting. 

Your friend, St. Nicholas." 
Easy Numerical Enigma. Don't speak ill of the year till it is 

I. 1. I iraut. 2. Rigor. 3. Agone. 4. Nones. 

Trent 2. Ruder. 3. Educe. 4. Necks. 5. 

Tress. 2. Ratio. 3. Ethel. 4. Siege. 5. 

Solec. 2. Ovule. 3. Lucia. 4. Elias. 5. 

2. Opera. 3. Lemon. 4. Erode. 5. Canes. 

Double Central Acrostic. 
fourth line. Saint Nicholas. 

Greek Cross : 
5. Tress. II. 
Tress. III. 
Solec (ism 1. IV. 
Cease. V. 1 Sole 

InHAle. 3. DeRIde. 4. SpIXet. 
ReMIss. 8. TrACed. 9. DiSHes 
12. DeMAnd. 13. CrESts. 

Diamond : 1. P. 2. RAg. 3. 
GuArd. 6. ENd. 7. T. 

Hour-glass. Centrals, Christmas Cross-word: 
2. EtcHing. 3. HaRpy. 4. Sin. 5. S. 6. j 
S. BreAthe. 9. TranSform. 

Two Word Squares : I. 1. Arabi. 2. 
Belle. 5. Islet. II. 1. Pacha. 2. Atlas. 
5. Ashen. 

Pictorial Numerical Enigma. 
A Christmas frolic oft will cheer 
A poor man's heart through half the 1 

Third line, Christmas time: 
Cross-words: i. ToCSin. 2. 

,. CaSTor. 6. CaTNip. 7 
10. BaTOns. 11. CoILed. 

RoGue. 4. PagEant. 5. 

Rates. 3 
3. Clash. 

7. LeMon. 

Atoll. 4. 
4. Haste. 

The names of those who send solutions are printed in the second number after that in which the puzzles appear. Answers should be 
addressed to St. Nicholas "Riddle-box," care of The Century Co., 33 East Seventeenth street, New York City-. 

Answers to all the Puzzles in the November i Number were received, before November 20, from R. T. Losee — Bertha L. 
Townsend — Lizzie C. Fowler — John Pyne — Genie J. Callmeyer — Harry W. Chandler, Jr., and Dexter S- Crosby. Jr. — Lizzie M. 
Thacher — Helen F. Turner — "Lode Star" — Partners — C. Bruell Sellers — Jeame Minot Rowell — Anna and Alice — Erne K. Talboys 

— Wilbur V. Knapp — Marna and Bae — Vin and Henry — Harry L. Reed — Professor and Co. 

Answers to Puzzles in the November Number were received, before November 20, from John Flohr, 1 — "Catsar." 4 — 
Frank Knapp, 1 — C. W. Dobler, 2 — Will N. and Geo. F. Dudley. 1 — Etta M. Taylor, 3 — -Laura Lilienthal. 2 — W. N. S. Hoffman, 2 

— Florence Pauline Jones, 2 — Charley A. Walton, 4 — A. M. Nicholas, 1 — Sallie Seaman, 2 — S. M., 7 — Gertrude Lansing and Julia 
Wallace, 7 — Mamie E. Dyer. 1 — Dorothy Leigh, 2 — B. C. R., 7 — Sarah, 2 — V. P. J. S. M. C, 6 — Warren, 5 — Sidney Vankeuren, 
2 — Clara L. Northway, 6 — John K. Miles, 7 — L. M. W. P., 1 — Jennie M. McClain, 1 — Harry S. Noble, 1 — Eric Doolittle, 2 — John 
Cameron, 1 — Marion Wing, 4 — "Aspasia,'*2 — Carrie J. Work, 1 — Daisy Vail, 4 — Lewis E. Oarr, Jr. , 1 — Man' McMath and Biddie 
Bunkam, 1 — Jack Lawrence, 2 — Burt McConn, 3 — Grade and Fannie, 2 — Minnie Ingelow Harrison, 5 — Florie Baker, 4 — " The 
Triplets," 1 — " Alcibiades," 7— M. W. T., 2 — J. Webb Parker, 2 — Edward F. Caldwell. 1 — George V. Curlin, 7 — Sunflower, 1 — 
Arabella Ward, 5 — Mamie Baker, 1 — Charlotte Breakey, 1 — "Woodpeckers." 4 — Jos. A. Maggini, i — "Aunt Hopkins." 4 — "Jersey 
Lilies," 3 — William F. Haines, Jr., 1 — Edward Dana Sabine, 5 — "North Star," 2 — Emilie and Rosa, 5 — T. S. Palmer, 4 — Kittie 
Knowland, 5 — Sydney, 1 — Alice Maud Kyte, 7— Edward Goodrich, 7 — D. B. Shumway, 7 _Clara and her Aunt, 7— Bertha M. 
Trask, 4 — Myrick Rheem. 5 — R. P. C, 7 — Philip Embury, Jr., 4— Julius W. Hansen, 1 — Grif, 2 — Bessie W. Walcott, 1 — Maggie 
Tolderlund, 2 — Mary W. Nail, 4 — Amateur, 7 — Maud Pretty," 3— Florence G. Lane, 3 — Nicoll Ludlow, Jr., 7 — Clara J. Child, 7 — 
Immo, 4 — Nellie Caldwell, 6 — Alice D. Close, 6 — Ellie and Ella, 3 — Minnie Woodbury, 4 — C. A. Smallwood, 7 — Mae B. Creighton, 5. 

[See "The Story of the Field of the Cloth of Gold."— Page 25 


Vol. X. 

FEBRUARY, 1883. 

No. 4. 

(Copyright, 1883, by The CENTURY CO.] 


By Sophie Swett. 

It did n't seem as if anybody in the world would 
be less likely to receive a valentine than Mrs. Brid- 
get O'Flanigan. It was no wonder that she laughed 
when 'Nezer asked her if she expected to have one 
— laughed until her chair threatened to give way 
under her, and her stand shook so that the apples 
and oranges began to roll off, and the pea-nuts and 
chestnuts hopped almost out of their baskets ; for 
Mrs. Bridget O'Flanigan's laughter had the effect 
of a small earthquake. 

" Is it til the loikes av me that annybody would be 
afther sindin' a foine bit av paper, wid flowers on it 
and shmall little b'ys widout a stitch til their backs 
barrin' wings ? Sure, is it a swateheart ye think I 
have, an' me a dacent widdy tin years agin May ? 
Go 'long wid ye now, ye spalpeen ! " 

And the "widdy" was again overcome by 
mirth at the thought, and 'Nezer had to go to work 
again at picking up the apples and oranges. 'Nezer 
was sitting at what Ben Mudgett called the "lee- 
ward side " of Mrs. O'Flanigan's apple-stand, eat- 
ing a turnover and drinking a cup of hot coffee. 

A thrifty and hard-working woman was Mrs. 
O'Flanigan, with a trading-bump equal to any 
Yankee's ; but for all that she tolerated some 
unprofitable customers. " If it was n't for the soft- 
hairtedness in her she 'd be rowllin' in gowld be 
this time," her neighbors said. 

It was in vain for her to try to harden her heart 
against a cold and hungry child, who looked wist- 
fully at her tempting stores t and it was very often 
indeed that an orange or a stick of striped candy 
found its way into a penniless little pocket. 

But she had to restrain her generous impulses 
to a considerable extent, or her stand would have 
become so popular, not only among the children who 
had no pennies, but among those who wanted to 
try the extraordinary and delightful experiment of 
getting their candy and keeping their pennies, that 
the customers who filled the money-box would have 
been crowded off. Now she had learned from long 
experience to attend to her unprofitable customers 
slyly, exacting from them promises of secrecy. 

'Nezer was one of the unprofitable customers. 
He was thin and "hungry-looking, and Mrs. O'Flan- 
igan had invited him to breakfast at her stand 
whenever he was in town. 

In the autumn he came into the city from 
Scrambleton about once a week, with Ben Mudgett. 
Ben worked on a large farm, and brought wagon- 
loads of vegetables and poultry and butter and 
eggs to market. 'Nezer was an orphan from the 
poor-house. He had been "bound out" to the 
Widow Scrimpings, who did n't live on a farm, 
but who raised poultry and sent it, with a few eggs 
and some very small pats of butter, to market. 

She tried to raise the poultry on the same prin- 
ciples by which she was raising 'Nezer — very short 
commons and very hard work ; but the chickens 
and geese and turkeys were all so lean and tough 
that 'Nezer could get for them only about half as 
much as Ben Mudgett got for his nice plump ones, 
and they would n't lay half as many eggs as Ben's 
did. And the Widow Scrimpings thought 'Nezer 
was to blame. In fact, she thought 'Nezer was to 
blame for almost everything. 




She blamed him because he had a very good 
appetite, and because he grew fast. And he 
always had to go hungry, and his legs were almost 
a quarter of a yard longer than his trousers, and his 
sleeves came only a little ways below his elbows, 
and he had to wear the Widow Scrimpings's uncle 
Plunkett's old hats, and Uncle Plunkett was the 
biggest man in Scrambleton, and 'Nezer had hard 
work to keep the hats from completely extinguish- 
ing his head. The rest of him grew and grew, 
but it did seem to 'Nezer as if his head would 
never grow to fit Uncle Plunkett's hats. 

Almost the only good times 'Nezer had were when 
he went to market with Ben Mudgett, and those 
good times came very seldom now that it was 
winter. Ben had saved a few barrels of apples and 
squashes, to sell when prices were higher than 
they were in autumn, and he had a few fat chickens 
and turkeys that had survived the Thanksgiving 
and Christmas feasting, and the Widow Scrimpings 
was glad of an opportunity to send 'Nezer along 
with a few meager fowls that looked as if they 
must have died of starvation, some eggs that she 
had saved with care until prices were as high as 
they were ever likely to be, and some cranberries 
half spoiled by being kept too long. 

It was very cold weather, now, and he had been 
obliged to set off at four o'clock in the morning, 
without any breakfast, but there were snug and 
warm places in Ben's big wagon in which to stow 
one's self away, and Ben could spin yarns and sing 
songs that would make you forget all about being 
cold or hungry or sleepy. Such a big voice as Ben 
had ! He waked all the sleepy firm-houses as they 
went along. Ben always had his breakfast before 
he started, and he did n't know that 'Nezer did n't 
have his; he would have been sure to have brought 
a lunch with him if he had ; but 'Nezer was not the 
kind of boy to complain. So it happened that 
'Nezer, being very faint with hunger, had cast 
wistful glances at Mrs. O'Flanigan's apple-stand, 
and that worthy woman, after trying in vain to 
harden her heart according to the advice of her 
friends and neighbors, raised her fat and somewhat 
grimy forefinger and slyly beckoned to him. And 
every time he came to town after that, 'Nezer found 
awaiting him a snug seat behind the stand, in the 
shelter of Mrs. O'Flanigan's capacious person, a 
doughnut or a turnover, and a cup of hot coffee. 

Mrs. O'Flanigan and 'Nezer had become great 
friends. He had been so little used to kindness in 
his life that a little seemed a great deal to him, and 
he thought Mrs. O'Flanigan was like an angel. 
He was always trying to devise a plan for making 
some return for her kindness, but beyond doing 
an errand for her occasionally there seemed to be 
no way. Now he had been looking admiringly at 

the valentines with which the shop windows were 
filled, and he wanted dreadfully to send her a valen- 
tine. He had fifteen cents which a man had given 
him for holding his horse, and he meditated the 
bold plan of buying a valentine for Mrs. O'Flani- 
gan with it, instead of giving it to the Widow 
Scrimpings. But when he delicately sounded 
Mrs. O'Flanigan on the subject of valentines, he 
received the discouraging response recorded at the 
beginning of this story. Mrs. O'Flanigan laughed 
to scorn the idea of her receiving a valentine. 

" Sure it 's the purty young girls that has 
valentines, an' not the loikes av me, ye gossoon ! " 
said she. " An' is it Micky O'Rourke, the pea-nut 
man around the corner — and a chatin' ould rash- 
kil he is, bad 'cess til him ! — is it him that ye think 
would be afther sindin' me a valentine ? Or is it 
me first cousin, Barty Macfarland, the ould widdy 
man that comes ivery wake askin' the loan av a 
quarther? Och, an' it 's the foine swatehearts I 
has ! It 's foolicht enough they are, but not that 
foolicht to be sindin' bit pictures til the loikes av 
me ! If it was a foine, fat young goose for me din- 
ner-pot, now, or a good shawl wid rid stripes intil 
it, thim would be valentines that ud suit me, jist ! " 

'Nezer heaved a deep sigh. That kind of a 
valentine was altogether beyond his reach. 

If she only would have liked one of those at 
which he had been looking, which could be 
bought for fifteen cents. There was one that had 
a red-and-gold heart upon it, two doves and two 
clasped hands, and some verses, beginning: 

" Your eyes are bright, your heart is light ; 
You are my darling dear!" 

'Nezer thought it was beautiful, and he could not 
see why it was not very appropriate indeed for Mrs. 
O'Flanigan. But it was evident that it would not 
suit her taste at all. He must try to think of 
something else. " You 'd orter have the very nicest 
valentine in the world ! " he said, gazing at her affec- 
tionately, with his mouth full of mince turnover. 

"Listen til the blarneyin' tongue av him ! Be 
aff wid ye, now, ye rashkil, and pit thim in your 
pocket agin ye be hongry go'n' home ! " 

And Mrs. O'Flanigan thrust two doughnuls into 
his pocket, and sent him off with a playful push. 

'Nezer was silent and sad all the way home. 
It was queer, but the fact was that he was sad 
for the first half of the way because he could n't 
think of anything to send Mrs. O'Flanigan for a 
valentine, and he was sad the last half because he 
had thought of something ! 

It was what she said about a ''foine fat goose 
for her dinner-pot " that made him think of it. 

There are very few people so poor that they 
have n't some one possession that is very precious 

i8< 3 .J 


2 45 

to them. 'Nezer, although he was bound out to the 
Widow Scrimpings, had one, and it was a goose ! 

Not a " fine, fat young goose," but a lean, old, 
lame goose, but still, for a dinner-pot, better than 
no goose at all, and for a valentine — well, 'Nezer 
had a vague idea that if he should send the most 
precious thing he had that would be just what a 
valentine ought to be. It would show his real 
feeling for Mrs. O'Flanigan. 

But he had another feeling that complicated 
matters, and made him very unhappy. He was so 
fond of Peg-leg that he could n't bear the thought 
of her being put into a dinner-pot. 

You may think it strange that anybody should 
be fond of a goose, but 'Nezer was a very affec- 
tionate boy, and he had never had much in his 
life to be fond of. Nobody had ever petted him, 
and he had never had anything to pet. And so, 
though Peg-leg was n't, even for a goose, very 
amiable or interesting, 'Nezer had set his affec- 
tions upon her. 

In appearance she was a most unprepossessing 
goose. She was not only so lame that she could 
scarcely waddle, but her neck and head were 
almost bare of feathers, and she had but one good 
eye. And she had a queer little drooping and 
ragged bunch of tail-feathers, that gave her a 
dejected look. But without the misfortunes that 
had given her her ungainly appearance she would 
never have been 'Nezer's goose. 

At a very tender age she had fallen into the 
clutches of a big dog, and been so badly treated 
that the Widow Scrimpings gave her up as dead, 
and ordered 'Nezer to give her to the cat. But 
'Nezer discovered that the breath of life was still in 
her, and by careful and tender nursing he had 
brought her up to comparatively vigorous goose- 
hood. But he had built a little house for her on 
Ben's farm, and took care to keep her there, and 
the Widow Scrimpings never knew that her cat 
had not made a meal off her. 

At first, 'Nezer had fed her with food saved from 
his own scanty meals, and with corn and meal that 
Ben gave him occasionally, but for a long time 
now she had supported herself by laying eggs. 

I am sorry to say that she had never seemed to 
return 'Nezer's affection. 

She was a very cross goose ; she ran her long 
neck out, and hissed fiercely at everybody ; and she 
hissed only a little less fiercely at 'Nezer than at 
other people. She always came when he called 
her, but Ben insisted that it was because he almost 
always gave her something to eat. 'Nezer thought, 
however, that it was a proof of affection for him. 
Ben did n't appreciate her. It was he who had 
named her Peg-leg. 

'Nezer did n't mention to Ben his intention of 

sending Peg-leg as a valentine to Mrs. O'Flanigan. 
Ben would be sure to approve of it heartily, and 
urge him to do it, and he was not quite ready to 
decide upon the matter yet. 

But as St. Valentine's Day drew near, and no 
stroke of good fortune had come to him to enable 
him to buy " a shawl wid rid stripes," which was 
the only other valentine that Mrs. O'Flanigan 
regarded as desirable, 'Nezer came to the decision 
that Peg-leg must be sacrificed. 

He made only one concession to his feelings — he 
would not mention the dinner-pot, and it was just 
possible that Mrs. O'Flanigan might think Peg-leg 
too attractive to be boiled and eaten. There was 
also a chance that she might think her too lean 
and scraggy, as she was fond of good eating. 

Moreover, she might guess from whom the val- 
entine came, as he had told her about Peg-leg, and 
refrain from boiling her for the sake of the giver. 

So it was not without some hope of again 
beholding Peg-leg in life that 'Nezer boxed her up 
and sent her, by express, to Mrs. O'Flanigan; the 
expressman, who was a friend of Ben's, charging 
but half price, and promising to take the best 
possible care of her. 

In the box with Peg-leg 'Nezer put a card, upon 
which he had written the verse which he had seen 
upon the valentine that he especially admired : 

" Your eyes are bright, your heart is light ; 
You are my darling dear ! " 

He was afraid she might not understand that 
Peg-leg was a valentine if there were no verse. 

On the outside of the box he wrote : " Take 
care ! it bites." 

That made it seem very unlike a valentine, but 
it was absolutely necessary for Mrs. O'Flanigan's 
protection, for Peg-leg's disposition would not be 
improved by six hours' confinement in a box. 

It was a little past noon on the 14th of Febru- 
ary when the expressman set down before Mrs. 
O'Flanigan's astonished eyes the box with its warn- 
ing sign, "Take care ! it bites." 

"Take care! 'Dade, thin, an' I will. Ye can 
take it back wid ye, whativer it do be ! " she 
screamed after the expressman, who was already a 
long ways down the street, and did not manifest 
the slightest intention of turning back. 

'• What murtherin' rashkil is afther sindin' me a 
crathur that bites? An' mesilf a dacint, paceable 
widdy woman, that nivir did no harum till anny- 
body ! Sure an' it do be a livin' crathur, for I 
hears him a-movin' an' a-rustlin' loike ! " And Mrs. 
O'Flanigan stood at a respectful distance, and 
gazed with fascinated curiosity at the box. 

There were small holes at each side of the box,— 
'Nezer had taken care that Peg-leg should be able 




to breathe, — and Mrs. O'Flanigan felt a keen 
desire to peep through these, but she dared not. 

" Sure, it might be a crocydile, or a shnake wid 
rattles til him, ef it don't be annything worse ! " 
And as a very queer noise proceeded from the box, 
Mrs. O'Flanigan stood still farther off, and crossed 
herself devoutly. 

" The loikes av it ! It might be the ould Imp 
himsilf!" said she. But just at that moment a 
loud and angry squawk came from the box. 

A look of relief, and gradually a broad grin, over- 
spread the face of Mrs. O'Flanigan. 

" Ayther that do be the v'ice av a goose, or it 's 
dramin' I am, intoirely!" she exclaimed. And 
in a twinkling she pulled off a portion of the top 
of the box. Peg-leg's long neck was thrust out 
with a frightful hissing" and snapping. 

" Och, the oogly crathur, wid but a handful av 
feathers til her ! Sure, it 's not a right goose she 
is at all, at all ! " 

By this time a crowd had collected around Mrs. 
O'Flanigan's stand. Trade had been dull to-day ; 
the children had spent all their pennies for valen- 
tines, and the stand had been almost deserted. 
But Peg-leg was more attractive than even valen- 
tines. The crowd increased until it threatened to 
blockade the street. 

Mrs. O'Flanigan was very much annoyed. She 
prided herself upon keeping her "bit place qui't 
and respictable." She stood waving her apron 
wildly, and ''shooing" the people off, as if they 
were so many chickens. " Kape off, will yecs, 
now, or the murtherin' baste will bite yees ! Sure, 
an' has n't a dacint widdy woman a right to kape 
a goose if she plazes ? — bad 'cess til the rashkil 
that sint him til me ! But, sure, it 's not long I '11 
be wringin' the oogly neck av him, if ye kape off 
an' give me the chance ! " 

The crowd cheered Mrs. O'Flanigan's speech, 
but showed no signs of dispersing. 

Peg-leg kept people at a respectful distance by 
hissing fiercely and snapping her bill, and now and 
then uttering a loud and angry squawk; but Mrs. 
O'Flanigan, with the courage of despair, was about 
to seize her and wring her neck, when she caught 
sight of the card. She took it out and looked at it, 
upside down and all around. 

But Mrs. O'Flanigan's education had been neg- 
lected. She could not read writing, and the card 
threw no light upon the goose. She beckoned from 
the crowd a small boy, who was one of her regular 
customers, and could be trusted, and requested 
him to tell her what was written on the card. 

As he read the word " valentine," and the tender 
lines that followed, light burst upon Mrs. O'Flani- 
gan's mind. " It 's that b'y 'Nezer ! An' sure it's 
a kind hairt he has, though — the saints be good 

til me! — it 's the quarest valentine iver I seen! 
And now, whativer will I do wid it at all, at all, for 
he towld me how fond he was av it, an' the hairt av 
him wud be broke intoirely if I kilt it! An' me 
not havin' the laste accommydashins for a goose ! " 

A man with a good-natured face, looking like a 
sailor, stood near and listened to Mrs. O'Flanigan's 
lamentation. " If you want to get rid of it, I '11 take 
care of it for you," said he. " I have just bought 
me a little place, five miles from the city, and I am 
going to keep poultry." 

" Sure, it 's an angel ye are to mintion it, but it '5 
a b'y that thinks the wurruld av it is afther sindin' 
it til me, an' I 'm not loikin' to pairt wid it, though 
sure I 'm not seein' how I can kape it, be the same 
token ! " 

" Where is the boy ? " asked the sailor. 

" Sure, it 's away off to Scrambleton he lives, wid 
a lone widdy, that stingy that she picks the bones 
av him. A sight to bring tears to your eyes, he is, 
wid the hatchet face av him, and his legs doon 
beyant his trousis loike two sticks, jist ! " 

"Scrambleton?" said the man. "I used to 
have a sister who lived in Scrambleton. But I 've 
been away for years, sailing all around the world, 
and she is dead, like everybody else that belonged 
to me — she and her husband, and the child, I 
suppose, for I can't hear anything of it. You don't 
happen to know this boy's name, do you ? " 

" I don't, sir. It 's 'Nezer he says they calls 
him, but sure that 's no name for a Christian ! " 

" Ebenezer, perhaps," said the man. "That 's 
my name. Perhaps I '11 go out to Scrambleton — 
I might hear something about my sister there. 
And 1 '11 go to see this boy, and tell him what 's 
become of his goose — that is, if you let me take it." 

" Sein' it 's only kapin' it ye '11 be, in a friendly 
way, perhaps I 'd betther lave it go," said Mrs. 
O'Flanigan. " For it 's kilt wid it I '11 be, if I 
kapes it, sure. But if ye see 'Nezer ye '11 be afther 
tellin' him that I thinks the wurruld av me valen- 
tine, but be rayson av havin' no accommydashins 
I 'm afther lindin' it for a bit, its dispersition not 
bein' that raysonable it wud be continted in a box ! " 

The man nailed the cover of the box once more 
over Peg-leg and her hissing, and carried her off. 
Mrs. O'Flanigan heaved a sigh of relief as she saw 
her valentine disappearing in the distance and the 
crowd dispersing. 

But as the days went by and no tidings came 
of either man or goose, Mrs. O'Flanigan began to 
feel a pang at the sight of a hungry-looking boy, 
fearing he might prove to be 'Nezer, and dreading 
to tell 'Nezer what had become of the goose. 

But when, about two weeks after St. Valentine's 
Day, 'Nezer did appear, she had to take two or 
three good long looks at him before she recognized 

"S3 3 .; 



him. For his legs were no longer "down beyant 
his trousis." He had on a brand-new suit from 
top to toe, and his cheeks were almost fat ! He 
held his head up, and his eyes were bright, and he 
did not look like the same boy. And the man who 
had carried off the goose was with him ! 

" He is my nephew, my only sister's son," said 
the man to Mrs. O'Flanigan. "And if I hadn't 
stopped to see the goose, and you had n't told me 
his name was 'Nezer, and he lived in Scrambleton, 
I should, perhaps, never have found him, for I 
thought he was dead. And I Ye got him away 
from the Widow Scrimpings, and as I have a snug 
bit of property, and nobody but him belonging to 
me, we're pretty comfortable together." 
•'Nezer's face fully confirmed his uncle's story. 

" And I'm hoping to make some return to you for 
your kindness to my nephew," said 'Nezer's uncle. 
And 'Nezer could with great difficulty refrain 

from telling her of the plans they had formed for 
supplying her next summer with the finest fruits 
from their garden. 

But Mrs. O'Flanigan protested that the "bit and 
the sup " she had given him would make her 
" niver a bit the poorer"; and he was "that da- 
cint and perlite " that it more than paid her, to say 
nothing of the " foine valentine " he had sent her. 

" Peg-leg has lots more feathers growing out on 
her ! " said 'Nezer, proudly. 

" It 's a foine fowl she do be, annyhow ! " said 
Mrs. O'Flanigan, politely. 

" And I think her temper is improving," said 
'Nezer's uncle. 

" She have but the laste bit in life av a timper," 
said Mrs. O'Flanigan ; " and sure what would anny 
av us be widout it ? " By which you will see that 
Mrs. O'Flanigan understood fashionable manners, 
if she was only an apple-woman. 





By Joaquin Miller. 


MOUNT Hood stands about sixty miles from 
the great Pacific, as the crow flies, and about two 
hundred miles up the Columbia River, as it is navi- 
gated. The Columbia is tranquil here — mild and 
calm and dreamy as Lake Como. But twenty 
miles higher, past the awful overhanging snow- 
peak that looks as if it might blow over on us as 
we sail up under it, the grand old river is all tor- 
rent and foam and fearful cataract. 

Mount Hood stands utterly alone. And yet he 
is not at all alone. He is only a brother, a bigger 
and taller brother, of a well-raised family of seven 

At any season of the year, you can stand on al- 
most any little eminence within two hundred miles 
of Mount Hood and count seven snow-cones, clad 
in eternal winter, piercing the clouds. There is no 
scene so sublime as this in all the world. 

The mountains of Europe are only hills in com- 
parison. Although some of them are quite as high 
as those of Oregon and Washington Territory, yet 
they lie far inland, and are so set on the top of 
other hills that they lose much of their majesty. 
Those of Oregon start up sudden and solitary, and 
almost out of the sea, as it were. So that while 
they are really not much higher than the mountain 
peaks of the Alps, they seem to be about twice as 

high. And being all in the form of pyramids or 
cones, they are much more imposing and beautiful 
than those of either Asia or Europe. 

But that which adds most of all to the beauty 
and sublimity of the mountain scenery of Mount 
Hood and his environs is the marvelous cloud 
effects that encompass him. 

In the first place, you must understand that all 
this region here is one dense black mass of match- 
less and magnificent forests. From the water's edge 
up to the snow-line clamber and cling the dark 
green fir, pine, cedar, tamarack, yew, and juniper. 
Some of the pines are heavy with great cones as 
long as your arms ; some of the yew trees are scar- 
let with berries ; and now and then you see a burly 
juniper bending under a load of blue and bitter 
fruit. And nearly all of these trees are mantled 
in garments of moss. This moss trails and swings 
lazily in tli£ wind, and sometimes droops to the 
length of a hundred feet. 

In these great dark forests is a dense undergrowth 
of vine-maple, hazel, mountain ash, marsh ash, wil- 
low, and brier bushes. Tangled in with all this is 
the rank and ever-present and imperishable fern. 
This fern, which is the terror of the Oregon farmer, 
stands so rank and so thick on the ground in the 
forests that oftentimes you can not see two yards 



before you, and your feet can hardly touch the 
ground. Through this jungle, with the great dark 
trees towering hundreds of feet above, prowl the 
black bear, the panther, the catamount, and the 
California lion. 

Up and through and over all this darkness of 
forests, drift and drag and lazily creep the most 
weird and wonderful clouds in all this world. They 
move in great caravans. They seem literally to 
be alive. They rise with the morning sun, like 
the countless millions of snow-white geese, swans, 
and other water-fowl that frequent the rivers of Ore- 
gon, and slowly ascend the mountain sides, drag- 
ging themselves through and over the tops of the 
trees, heading straight for the sea, or hover- 
ing about the mountain peaks, as if they 
were mighty white-winged birds, weary of 
flight and wanting to rest. 

They are white as snow, these clouds of 
Oregon, fleecy, and rarely, if ever, still ; 
constantly moving in contrast with the black 
forests, these clouds are strangely, sadly 
sympathetic to one who worships nature. 

Of course, in the rainy season, which is 
nearly half the year here, these cloud effects 
are absent. At such times the whole land 
is one vast rain-cloud, dark and dreary and 
full of thunder. 

To see a snow-peak in all its sublimity, 
you must see it above the clouds. It is not 
necessary that you should climb the peak 
to do this, but ascend some neighboring 
hill and have the white clouds creep up or 
down the valley, through and over the 
black forest, between you and the snowy 
summit that pricks the blue home of stars. 
What color ! Movement ! Miraculous life ! * ', 

A few months ago, I met a party of 
English travelers who were completing the 
circuit of the world by way of San Fran- ; ,'i.; 
cisco. I was on my way to Oregon, and /;-?> 
this party decided to sail up the coast with 
me, and, if possible, ascend Mount Hood. 

The party consisted of a gentleman and 
his wife, his wife's sister and brother, be- 
sides their little child of about ten years, a ,.,y 
pale little cripple on crutches. The journey / .... 
around the world had been undertaken, I 
was told, in the hope of restoring her to 
health. So she was humored in every way, wSF" 
and everything possible done to please and 
amuse her. 

We sailed pleasantly up the barren, rocky, and 
mountainous coast of Oregon for two days, and 
all the way we watched the long, moving lines of 
white clouds clinging about the mountain tops, 
creeping through the mountain passes in long, 

unbroken lines, or hovering wearily around some 
snowy summit ; and the English travelers counted 
it all strangely beautiful. 

Not a sail in sight all these two days. And the 
waters of this, the vastest of all seas, as still and as 
blue as the blue skies above us. 

Whales kept spouting about us, and dolphins 
tumbled like circus men before us ; and the pale 
little cripple, sitting on the deck on a soft chair 
made of shreds of cane or rattan by the cunning 
Chinamen, seemed very happy. She had a lap- 
dog, of which she was amazingly fond. The dog, 
however, did not seem so fond of her. He was a 
very active fellow, full of battle, and much pre- 


[SEE page 251.] 

ferred to lying in her lap the more active amuse- 
ment of running and barking at the sailors and 

After some ugly bumps on the sand-bars at the 
mouth of the Columbia, — a place strewn with 

2 SO 



skeletons of ships, — we at length entered this noble 
river. It is nearly ten miles wide here, and many 
little islands, covered with tangled woods from 
water's edge to summit, dot the wide and tran- 
quil harbor. 

Half a day's hard steaming up the river, with 
here and there a little village nestling in the 
dense wood on the water's edge at the base of 
the mighty mountains on either side, and we were 
in Portland and preparing to ascend Mount Hood. 

It seems incredible, but, unlike all other mount- 
ains of importance, this one has no regular guides. 
We had to hunt up and make an entire outfit of 
our own. 

Of course the little cripple was left behind, with 
her nurse and dog, when we five gayly mounted 
and rode down to the ferry to cross the Willamette 
River, which lies at the edge of the town and 
between our hotel and Mount Hood. 

As the boat pushed oft", the little cripple's 
frolicsome dog, Vixey, leaped in with us from the 
shore, barking and bounding with delight, to think 
he was to escape being nursed and was to make 
one of the expedition. 

We rode hard through the tangled woods, with 
rank ferns and brier bushes and thimbleberry 
bushes in our faces. We climbed up almost 
entirely unfrequented roads and trails for half a 
day. Then we dismounted by a dark, treach- 
erous, sandy stream, and lunched. 

Mounting again, we pushed on in single file, 
following our guides as fast as we could up steep 
banks, over stones and fallen logs, and through 
almost impenetrable tangles of fern and vine- 
maple. There were three guides. One, an Indian, 
kept far ahead on. foot, blazing out the way with 
a tomahawk, and shouting back and yelling to the 
other guides till he made the solemn forest ring. 

The two ladies kept the saddle and clung to the 
horses' manes. But the men often dismounted and 
led their tired horses by the bridle. 

The velping dog had gone astray a dozen times, 
chasing squirrels, deer, and even birds, and I 
heartily hoped he would get lost entirely, for I 
abhor poodles. But the parents of the little crip- 
ple, when he would get lost, would not go on with- 
out him. So this kept us back, and we did not 
reach the snow-line till dusk. 

The guides had shot a deer, two grouse, and 
many gray squirrels ; so that, when we had made a 
roaring fire of pine-knots, and had fed and rubbed 
down our worn-out horses, we sat there in the 
light of our great fire by the snow border, and 
feasted famously. For oh, we were hungry ! 

Then we laid down. But it seemed to me we 
were hardly well asleep before the guides were 
again boiling coffee, and shouting to each other 

about the work of the new day. How tired we all 
were still ! All but that dog. That noisy and 
nervous little poodle seemed to be as eager as the 
guides to get us up and on before the sun had 
softened the snow. 

In the gray dawn, after a solid breakfast, each 
with a pike in hand and hob-nailed shoes on the 
feet, we were in line, lifting our faces in the sharp, 
frosty air for the summit of Mount Hood. 

The snow was full of holes. Now and then 
a man would sink to his waist. We strangers 
would laugh at this. But observing that the 
guides took such mishaps seriously, we inquired 
the reason. When they told us that some of these 
holes were bottomless, we too became serious, and 
took hold of the long rope which they carried, and 
never let go. The ladies brought up the rear, and, 
like all English ladies, endured the fatigue wonder- 
fully. That tireless little dog yelped and bounded, 
now in the face of this man, now in the face of that, 
and seemed by his omnipresence to belong to flank 
and rear and van. 

Before noon we came to a great crack, or chasm, 
or cleft, in the mountain side, for which the guides 
could give no reason. Their only idea of it ap- 
peared to be one of terror — their only object to 
escape it. They all fastened the rope to their belts, 
so that, in the event of one falling in, the others 
could draw him back. 

As we advanced we found the mountain precipi- 
tous, but in no wise perilous, if we except these 
treacherous cracks and holes referred to. 

Now and then we would lean on our pikes and 
turn our heads to the world below. Beautiful ! 
Beautiful ! Rivers of silver ! Cities, like birds' 
nests, dotted down in the wilderness beneath. But 
no one spoke, when speaking could be avoided. 
The air was so rare that we were all the time out 
of breath. 

As we neared the summit, one of the guides fell 
down, bleeding at the mouth and senseless. One 
of the gentlemen forced some brandy down his 
throat, when he sat up and feebly beckoned us to 
go on. 

Ten minutes more of hard climbing, and five 
Saxons stuck their pikes in the summit and stood 
there together, five or six feet higher than the 
highest mountain in all that mountainous region 
of North America. 

The wind blew hard, and the little woolly dog lay 
down and curled up in a knot, for fear lest he 
should be blown away. He did not bark or take 
any kind of delight now. The fact is, he did not 
like it at all, and was pretty badly frightened. It 
is safe to say that he was quietly making up his 
mind that, if he ever got back to that little basket 
with its blue ribbons about the borders and the 


cozy little bed inside, he would be willing to take a 
nap and stay with the lonesome little cripple. 

The ladies' lips and noses were blue with the 
cold, and their hair was making all kinds of ban- 
ners and streamers in the biting wind. The 
guides seemed dull and indifferent to everything. 
They lay flat down a few feet from the summit, 
pointing out the highest place to us, and took no 
interest in anything further, not even in their com- 
panion, whom we could see doubled up a little 
way below on the steep side of the snow. 

We men moved on down over the summit on 
the Columbia side a few yards, in the hope of get- 
ting a glimpse of the great river which we knew 
rolled almost under us. But the whole world 
seemed to be one mass of clouds on that side ; and 
we hastened back to the ladies, resolved to now 
descend as soon as possible. 

One of the ladies, meantime, had gone down to 
the guides and got a little bundle, consisting of a 
British and an American flag and a Bible, with all 
our names in it. And the two were now trying to 
fasten the flags on a small iron pipe. But the 
wind, which had been getting stronger every min- 
ute since we came, was now so furious that we felt 
it was perilous to keep the ladies longer on the 
summit. So one of our party started with them 
down the mountain, while we other two took 
charge of the tokens of our achievement, which we 
hoped to leave here to tell others who might come 
that we had been before them. 

Flutter ! flutter ! flap ! snap ! phew ! Away 
•went the British and American flags together. 
And before we knew it, the Bible, now lying on 
the snow, blew open and started after them. The 
gallant Briton at my side threw out his long leg 
and tried to stop its flight with his foot. But 
it bounded over the snow like a rabbit, and was 

The little dog lying there on his breast was ter- 
ribly tempted to start after it, and if he had, there 
would have been no further interest in this sketch. 
But he seemed to have lots of sense, and lay per- 
fectly still till the last one of us started down the 
mountain. Then he bounded up and on down 
after us, and his joy seemed without limit. 

As we hastily descended, we found the stricken 
guide already on his feet and ready to lead in the 
descent. The ladies, too, had thawed out a little, 
and did not look so blue. 

We began to talk too, now, and to congratulate 
ourselves and each other on the success of our 
enterprise. We were in splendid spirits, and the 
matchless scenery before us filled us with exulta- 

The guides, however, cautioned us at every 
step as we neared the holes, and all held stoutly on 

to the rope. The little dog leaped ahead over the 
hard snow, and seemed the happiest of all the 
happy party. He advanced down the mountain 
backward. That is, he would somehow leap down- 
ward tail first, looking all the time in our faces — 
looking up with his red mouth open, and his white, 
fat little body bounding like a rubber ball over the 
snow. Suddenly the head guide cried out in terror. 
The dog had disappeared ! 

We all looked at' each other, horror on every 
face. We were on the edge of a fissure, and the 
dog had been swallowed up. Whose turn next? 

The wind did not blow here, for we had de- 
scended very fast and were now not far from the 
timber line. We had all driven our pikes hard 
in the snow and fallen on our knees, so as to be 
more certain of our hold, and were silent as the 
dead. Hark ! 

Away down, deep in the chasm, almost under us 
somewhere, we heard the poor dog calling for help. 
After a while, one of the guides answered him. 
The dog called back, so far off, so pitiful ! This 
was repeated two or three times. But as the little 
brute seemed swallowed up forever, and as we lay 
there shivering on the brink and could not help 
him out, we obeyed the first law of nature, and 
cautiously crept back and around the ugly gorge. 
Soon we were once more safe with our horses, and 
drinking coffee by the warm fire as before. 

We reached the city without further accident. 
But the very first thing the little cripple did on our 
return was to lift her pale face from her crutch and 
eagerly inquire for her dog. No one could answer. 
The parents exchanged glances. Then, for the first 
time, as the child still entreated for her pet, they 
seemed to realize their loss. They refused to tell 
her what had become of the dog at first. But, 
little by little, as we sat at dinner together, she got 
the whole truth. Then she left the table, crying 
as though her heart would break. 

There was no dinner that day for any of us, after 
that. The father had strong, fresh horses brought, 
and on the next day we men, with the guides, set 
out to find the dog. At the last moment, as we 
mounted and were riding away, the child brought 
her little dog's basket, with its blue ribbons and its 
soft bed. For, as we assured her the dog would 
be found, she said he would be cold and sleepy, and 
so we should take his bed along. 

On the first day we came to the chasm in the 
snow from the lower side. But had the dog not 
been drowned ? Had he not perished from cold 
and hunger? We had brought a sort of trap — in 
fact, it was a large kind of rat-trap. This we 
baited with a piece of roasted meat on the trigger. 
Would not the hungry little fellow enter the trap, 
tug at the bait, throw the trap, get caught, and 



so be drawn up to the light, if still alive? We all 
heartily hoped so, at least. 

Some of the shelving snow broke off and fell as 
we let the rope slide down with the trap. Then 
for the first time we heard the little rascal yelp. 

I never saw a man so delighted as was that usu- 
ally stolid and impassive Englishman. He could 
not stand still, but, handing the rope to his friend, 
he danced about, and shouted, and whistled, and 
sang to the dog away down there in his dark, ugly 

The dog answered back feebly. It was evident 
he was not in the best of spirits. Perhaps he was 
too feeble to even enter the trap. Anyway, he did 
not enter it. 

We drew it up time and again, but no sign of the 
dog. The stout Englishman prepared himself to 
descend the pit. But when the guide explained 
the danger of the whole side shelving off, and 
imperiling the lives of others, as well as his own 
life, that last hope was abandoned. 

The father of the little cripple, after all was 
packed up and ready for the return, picked up the 
basket with the blue ribbons and soft bed inside. 
He looked at it sadly. Tears were in his eyes. 
Should he take the basket back ? The sight of it 
would only make the little cripple more sad. I 
could read all this in his face as he stood there 
irresolute, with the basket in his hand and tears 
streaming down his face. He at length made a 
motion as if to throw the little basket, with its blue 

ribbons and soft bed inside, down into the pit with 
the dog. 

" No, we will let him have his little bed to die 
in in good shape. Here, fasten this on a rope, 
and lower it down there where you last heard him 
cry," said the kind-hearted Englishman. 

In a few moments one of the guides had un- 
loosened a rope which he had packed up to take 
back; and the basket was soon being lowered into 
the dark pit, over the hanging wall of snow. 

The dog began to whimper, to whine, then to 
bark as he had not barked that day. 

As the basket struck the bottom it was caught as 
a fish-line is caught, and the rope almost jerked 
out of the hands of the guide. 

The father of the little cripple clutched the rope 
from the guide, and drew it up hand over hand as 
fast as possible. Then the bright black eyes of the 
dog danced and laughed at him as he jerked the 
basket up over the treacherous wall of snow. 

The poor shivering little fellow would not leave 
the basket. There he lay all the time as we hur- 
ried on down and mounted horse. The happy 
Englishman carried it back to the city on his arm. 
And he carried it carefully, too, as if it had been a 
basket of eggs and he on his way to market. 

And the little girl ? Well, now, it was worth 
all the work and bother we had to see her happy 
face as she came hobbling out on her crutch to 
take the little basket, with its blue border and the 
dog curled up in his bed inside. 


By J. M. Anderson. 

Her eyes are just as blue a hue 

As ever painter's palette knew ; 

Why, look ! She 's pretty as a picture-book ! 

Her hair, — oh yes, her hair, her hair, 

Is gold as any anywhere ; 

Her lips eclipse the rose ; I think 

She 's sweeter than a pink ! 

And though she only stares and wears 

The most aristocratic airs, 

I guess it 's owing to her style of dress ! 

For I am but a Jickey-Jack, 

With tons of trouble on my back, 

And she, ah me ! is grand and tall ! 

She 's Alice's best doll ! 




By E. S. Brooks. 



" And as I thrust the presse among, 

By froward chaynce mine hoode was gone, 
Yet for alle that I stayde not long 

Till to the Kynge's lysis I was come," — 

trolled out Sommers, the King's jester, adapting 
one of Master Lydgate's ballads to suit the case, 
as, with Rauf and Roger, the archer, he pressed 
through the crowd of guards, retainers, and sight- 
seers on a visit to the field set apart for the tourna- 
ment. Great preparation had been made for this 
occasion. The lists were pitched on English 
ground, on a fairly level ridge midway between the 
two camps. Rauf had already received some 
schooling in jousting, and had even " run at the 
tilt " in a mild way with Parker, the armorer at 
Verney Hall. He found, therefore, much to 
interest him in the progress of the work which was 
to make this trial of strength, — almost the last of 
the tourneys, — the magnificent pageant that so 
well became the lavish and chivalric princes under 
whose orders it was arranged. 

"Forasmuch as God has given the cherished 
treasure of peace to Frame and England" — so 
ran the " Ordonuance dc Tourney," — " to prevent 
idleness and sedition, sixteen gent/emeu of name 
and blood — eight French and eight English — for 
the honor of God and the love of their ladies, 
intend to maintain these articles" — and then follow 
the elaborate rules of the combat. 

"Why this fosse, Master Sommers?" asked 
Rauf, as the three crossed a drawbridge and passed 
within the field. " Surely none here would force 
the lists." 

" Why, then, except to keep back those who 
most desire to see," replied the jester. " Are you 
so young in state-craft, good page, that you have 
not yet learned that whoso wishes the loaf gets the 
crust, and that he who works the hardest and 
waits the most patiently to see a triumph, can only 
view it across a ditch or through a rampart of 
halberds ? " 

Nine hundred feet in length and three hundred 
and twenty feet across, on ground well and prop- 
erly prepared, stretched the great lists. The field 
was an open space, after the English fashion, and 
not a counter or double list, as were many French 

tilts. Around the inclosurc ranged high galleries, 
hung with choicest tapestries, for the privileged 
spectators, and to the right, in the place of honor, 
were glazed chambers, bright with colored hang- 
ings and cloth of gold, for the two Queens. At the 
foot of the lists Rauf stopped in wonder before a 
mass of gold and color, grouped under a great 
triumphal arch of velvet and damask and cloth of 

" What can this be? " he asked in amazement. 

"This," said the jester, learned in all heraldic 
matters, "is the forest of fallacy, the vegetation 
of rank — and rank enough has it oft proved, 
when planted by unkingly kings, or fostered by 
unknightly knights. This, young Master Inexpe- 
rience, is the knightly 'perron' — the 'tree of 
nobility.' " 

"Oh, yes, yes — I know it now," broke in Rauf. 
" 'Tis the tree on which will hang the shields of 
challengers and answerers." 

"Softly, softly, Sir Page," said the jester; 
"crowd not so rudely on this tree of name and 
blood. See, here twine the royal branches, high 
above those of baser birth ; here is the hawthorn 
of our King's highness of England, there the rasp- 
berry of him of France." 

And a curious combination indeed was this " tree 
of nobility," covering a space of near one hundred 
and thirty feet — its trunk a mass of cloth of gold, 
its foliage of green silk, its flowers and fruit of 
silver and Venetian gold, while the mock earth in 
which it was imbedded was a great mound of green 

Late on that Saturday afternoon came the rival 
trumpet peals, and there streamed into the lists 
the royal challengers, and their attendant trains of 
heralds and pursuivants and guards, to attach the 
kingly shields to the hawthorn and the raspberry 
in challenge to the field. With much excess of 
courteous language, but with much dispute never- 
theless as to which shield should have the higher 
position, now France's herald and now England's 
argued and contested. " But finally," says the 
chronicle, " the King of England caused the 
French King's arms to be placed on the right, and 
his own on the left equally high," and so the 
momentous question was settled. 

On the next morning, a fair Sunday of the early 
June, as Rauf and Margery knelt at mass in the 
gorgeous chapel attached to the English palace, 
were they at all different from our boys and girls 

2 54 



of this more practical age if their thoughts left the 
stately service, and wandered, awed and wondering, 
in accompaniment to their eyes around that mar- 
velously magnificent apartment ? For this royal 
chapel was the great Cardinal's peculiar pride. To 
fitly decorate it he had sent over sea " the best 
hangings, travers, jewels, images, altars, cloths, 
etc., that the King has." Thirty-five priests, in 
robes of cloth of gold, powdered with rich red roses 
and strewn with gold and jewels, assisted by many 
singing boys and acolytes, conducted the services, 
while everywhere the glitter of gold and jewels, the 
flash of costliest hangings and rarest decorations 
more than regally adorned this royal chapel of a 

And now Margery's share in the festivities be- 
gan, for there came that fair Sunday afternoon, 
"gloriously appareled" and brilliantly attended, 
the courtly King Francis to dine with the Queen 
of England. 

"And oh, Rauf," reported the excited little 
dame, "he knelt beautifully on the ground, bon- 
net in hand, and saluted the Queen and her ladies. 
Yes! — and he even kissed poor little me, and 
called me a ■' fayre damoyselle,' sir, and praised my 
bloom and color, and wished he could transplant 
so sweet an English flower to the gardens of good 
Queen Claude ! " 

"All of which you believed, I suppose. Oh, Mar- 
gery, Margery ! take the advisement of one who has 
mingled much with kings, and " 

" Have done, have done, Master Impudence," 
cried Margery, "and tell us what you saw at 

And then our young sight-seers tried to outvie 
each other in tales of what they had seen, for Rauf 
had attended King Henry on his visit to the French 
Queen at Arde. He told of Queen Claude's dia- 
mond-sprinkled robes ; of the great golden dinner 
sendees, of the feast, and of the wonderful side- 
dishes, which were leopards, and salamanders, and 
other beasts bearing the French arms; of the en- 
trance of Mountjoy, the French herald, with his 
great golden goblet, and his cry of " Largess to 
the most high, mighty, and excellent Henry, King 
of England ; largess, largess ! " and of the room 
where they went after the feast, "adorned with 
tapestry of cloth of gold, and carpeted with crim- 
son velvet." All of which Margery capped with 
equally wonderful tales of English ceremony and 
French courtliness. And so the}- supped full of 

The next morning Rauf was up betimes, eager 
and anxious for the hour to arrive that should open 
the tournament. 

"Give you good day, Master Rauf," said a 
cheery voice, and looking over against the great 

statue of the English archer which, with bended 
bow, fronted the castled entrance, Rauf saw his old 
friend Roger, the archer of the guard. "A fair 
and rare day for the tilts, if but this wind wdl 

" And will it not die off. think you. Roger?" 
asked Rauf, anxiously. 

The archer eyed the flying stud of clouds rather 

" Elaw the wind never so fast, 
It will lower at last," 

he said, repeating an old English couplet, " which 
is about all the comfort I can give you, Master 
Rauf ; so we must e'en make the best of it. But 
they say the King's highnesses will both run at 
the tilt to-day. Heard you aught of this, Master 

"Ay," said Rauf, proud to be able to disclose 
state secrets, " 't is even so ; as challengers both, 
they hold the lists against all comers. And whom, 
think you, will run the course most valiantly, good 
Roger ? " 

The archer pointed to the significant legend that 
streamed from the more gigantic archer above 
him — " He whom I back, wins." "Could I make 
that legend sure," he said, " I know full well who 
would come off victor ; but 

' Where all are well mounted and matched. 
None knoweth whose pate will be patched.'" 

" 'T will be a rare sight though, will it not?" 
said Rauf. 

" Ay, and a brave one, too," said the archer, 
" though I may not see all the sport. Twelve fel- 
lows of our guard, with twelve of the French King's 
archers, guard the entrance to the lists." 

Dinner over, Rauf s and Margery's restless long- 
ings changed to active realization, as, with banners 
fluttering and music "sounding most melodious- 
ly," on chargers gorgeously trapped, in litters or 
in chariots covered with cloths of gold and silver, 
and emblazoned with the royal arms, the King and 
Queen of England passed, with a gallant company, 
out of the palace gates and on to the waiting lists. 
Soon after came the French retinue, " equally 
glorious "; the galleries quickly filled with a great 
company of richly dressed lords and ladies from 
both the camps, while all the hills around were 
black with the crowds that had flocked from all 
quarters to the great spectacle. Rauf and Mar- 
gery both sat in Queen Katherine's gallery, ab- 
sorbed in watching the glittering trains of knights 
passing and repassing in the lists beneath them, or 
in picking out from the throng the great person- 
ages with whose faces they were familiar. 

" That is the Constable of Bourbon, Margery — 

>88 3 .] 



greatest in France next the King, "said Rauf. "And 
who is that with him ? 'T is one of our English 
knights, but his face is turned away from us." 

" Anctor pretiosa facit"* read Margery, spelling 
out the legend that was blazoned on the shield of 
the unknown. 

" Why sure, then, 't is the Duke of Bucking- 
ham," said Rauf, learned in the knight's embla- 
zonments ; " and see, now, as he turns his face this 
way, it is the Duke indeed." And then they both 
looked with admiration at these two knights as they 
passed : both princes of the blood, both young, 
chivalrous, haughty, and brave ; both destined 
soon to be adjudged traitors to the kings in whose 
trains they now glittered ; both soon to die — the 
one by the headsman's ax on Tower Hill, by the 
command of Henry of England ; the other, while 
gallantly scaling the walls of Rome in open revolt 
against Francis of France. 

"And that, Margery, is madame, the Queen 
Mother of France," said Rauf, pointing to a royal 
lady who, in a diamond-circled robe of black vel- 
vet, leaned over the gallery-front to return the 
courteous salutations of the lords of Buckingham 
and Bourbon. Margery looked with awe at this 
great lady, Louise of Savoy, whose wish was law 
to her son, the King of France ; the royal lady to 
whom, years after, the captive King was to send 
that famous message from the bloody fight of 
Pavia — the field of his defeat: "Madam, there 
is nothing in this world left to me but my honor 
and my life." 

Many other notable persons did the children 
study, in youthful criticism or admiration. Queen 
Katherine's plain but not unlovely Spanish face, 
" not handsome, but very beautiful in complexion," 
as wrote the cautious Venetian embassador, lighted 
up with something of a smile as she talked with 
the young Oueen Claude of France, the daughter 
of the stately house of Valois. Near the Queens, 
too, stood the gay-faced and sprightly maid of six- 
teen, the Lady Anne Boleyn, before many years to 
be raised to the dangerous and, to her, fatal emi- 
nence of Queen of England. 

And while in broken French, or through inter- 
preters, the ladies in the galleries courteously 
talked together, down in the lists was the bustle 
and excitement of preparation. Soon the trump- 
ets sounded, and the heralds proclaimed the tour- 
nament opened. With volt and demivolt, with 
charge and thrust, with clash of swords and splin- 
tering of lances, the royal challengers, Henry of 
England and Francis of France, with their sup- 
porters, held the lists in friendly combat against 
the bravest knights of England and of France. For 
twelve days, save when the wind, as Roger the 
archer feared, blew too boisterously for the lances 

to be couched, the jousts continued, intermingled 
with other sports, and feats of strength or skill. 
In all such contests as they bore a part the Kings of 
France and England, so says the royal chronicler, 
"did marvels; breaking spears eagerly, and well 
acting their challenge of jousts." Between the 
times of tourney came other frolics, lavish in dis- 
play and royal in profusion. Wrestling matches 
and archery contests, dancing, and music, and 
song, " maskalynes and mummeries," f at either 
camp, helped on these joy-filled days. How greatly 
Rauf and Margery delighted in all this pleasure 
and pageantry, let any boy or girl of to-day who 
passes two blissful hours at some great show, some 
"gigantic aggregation of wonders," determine; 
let them consider how much enjoyment is crowded 
into their two hours of spectacle, and then think, 
calmly if they can, of two weeks of such excitement 
and display ! 

Into the lists one bright afternoon thronged the 
" venans " or "comers," to run a tilt with the 
" tenans " or " holders." Riding down the field 
to the "tree of nobility," each knight rang his 
lance upon the black-and-gray shield, thus signi- 
fying his readiness to joust with the challengers. 
One English knight, more aspiring than the rest, 
— Sir Richard Jerningham, knight of the King's 
chamber, — reaching to the top of the " perron," 
struck with his lance's tip the white-and-silver 
shield of the King of France. Then "holders" 
and "comers" rode the one general course of 
lance to lance, and, this shock over, they fell 
back while the single champions rode before the 

" For whom fight you, Sir Richard Jerningham. 
good knight and true?" demanded Mont St. 
Michel, the herald of France. 

" For the honor of God, the glory of England, 
and the love of the little lady, Mistress Anne 
Boleyn — our rose of England blooming at the 
court of France," and the gallant Sir Richard 
bent to his saddle-bow in salute to the fair young 
maiden whom he thus championed. 

"And for whom fight you, Francis, King of 
France ? " demanded the English herald, garter 

And the kingly knight, not to be outdone in 
courtesy to the bright young girlhood of England, 
glanced toward Queen Katherine's gallery, and 
made instant answer : 

" For the honor of God, the glory of France, 
and the love of the sweet little Mistress Margery 
Carew — the tenderest blossom in the train of our 
sister of England." 

Margery's beaming face, which had been 
stretched eagerly forward in the excitement of 
seeing and listening, flushed furiously as she drew 

"The giver makes the gift more precious." t .Much the same as the masquerades and theatricals of to-day. 




back in sudden confusion, while' the "Oh!" of 
surprise broke from her parted lips. Then she 
looked quickly to the lists again, as the shouts of 
the heralds : 

" St. George for England ! " 

" St. Denis for France ! " 
rang out and the trumpets sounded the charge. 

With visors closed and lances fully couched 
the knights spurred across the field, but, just as 
they approached the shock, Sir Richard's horse 
stumbled slightly and threw his rider's lance out 
of aim. With knightly courtesy King Francis broke 
his own couch, raised his lance upright, and 
then, with friendly salutations, both knights 
passed each other without closing. Turning in 
the course once more, they galloped across the 
lists, and with equal speed and with steady aim, 
"full tilt" they spurred to the shock. Tang, 
tang ! the lances struck and splintered fairly. Sir 
Richard's stroke met the guard of King Francis's 
silver shield, while the lance of the King rang 
full against Sir Richard's pass-guard or shoulder- 
front. But, though Sir Richard struck "like a 
sturdy and skillful cavalier," the shock of his 
antagonist was even more effective. For, as the 
record states, "the French King on his part ran 
valiantly." Sir Richard's horse fell back with the 
shock, his rider reeled in the saddle, and, so says 
the chronicle, " Jerningham was nearly unhorsed." 
The broken lance-shafts were dropped from the 
hands of the knights, and the heralds declared 
Francis, King of France, victor in the tilt. 

An hour later, Sir Richard came to Queen 
Katherine's gallery, King Francis accompanying 
him. Then, in accordance with the rules of the 
tourney, Sir Richard, as the knight "who was 
worsted in the combat," with due courtesy and 
a deep salute, presented to the blushing Margery 
a beautiful chain of gold, large and glittering, as 
"the token to the lady in whose service the 
victor fights," and King Francis, smiling, said: 

" And I, too, must claim my guerdon from this 
lady mine. Will the fair Margery be our guest at 
Arde to-night ? " 

Margery looked to Lady Gray, who said : 

" With pleasure, if so it please your Highness." 

"And here shall be your trusty squire, our old 

friend, — and yours, too, I'll wager, — Master Rauf 

Bulney," and the King placed his hand pleasantly 

on the boy's shoulder. 

So to the French camp at Arde went Rauf and 
Margery, and there they were feasted " right royal- 
ly "; and that night, too, as they were preparing for a 
"maskalyne," there came up a fierce gale of wind, 
and the great central pole of the royal pavilion 
swayed and shivered, bent and broke before the 
blast ; and the mass of painted canvas and cloth 
of gold, of gilded ornaments and quaint devices, 
together with the great statue of St. Michael, came 
down to the ground in a mighty and utter wreck. 
And the King rejoiced greatly over the safety of all 
his train, but mostly over his little English guests, 
who, with the Lady Anne Boleyn, had luckily 
escaped all harm. 

(To be continued.) 


By Wilbur Larremore. 

What, little Mabel ! reading old romance ? 
Come here, and leave that dusty chimney-nook, 
And do put by that antiquated book, — 
I '11 show you all you 've read at one swift glance. 
The sunlight gilds earth's carpet of soft snow. 
Behold without The Field of Cloth of Gold ! 
The trees are knights so valiant, tall, and bold, 
Steel-clad in icicle-mail from top to toe ; 
And sec the evergreens upon the lawn — 
Fair ladies who will never lose their charms ; 
Soon will the wind sound loud the battle-horn — 
There '11 be a tournament with clash of arms ! 



By J. T. Trowbridge. 

Chapter XI. 


RUSH and his bean-pole had startled the Argo- 
nauts into paying very respectful attention to what 
the oldest brother had to say. 

" We 're peaceable folks here," said Mart, " or 
at least we try to be. It's Sunday, and we don't 
want a row. But, my 
friend," addressing Buz- 
row, " if you must be 
swinging that piece of 
iron, I 'd rather you would 
n't swing it in the direc- 
tion of our dam." 

Buzrow held the bar, 
looking rather foolishly 
from the array of Tink- 
ham boys to his own com- 
panions, while Mart pro- 
ceeded : 

"Whoever fancies we 
are going to stand quietly 
by and see our property 
destroyed has very erro- 
neous ideas of human nat- 
ure. It may as well be understood 
first as last that we can't have that." 

As Buzrow had desisted from belligerent 
action, he seemed to think it necessary to 
make some defiant remark instead. 

" The dam is a nuisance, and it 's got to go." 

"It is n't a nuisance to us," replied Mart. 
"We bought the mill in good faith, without 
knowing that anybody had ever objected to the 
dam. Now we are willing to consider objec- 
tions in a liberal spirit ; and we ask you, on 
your part, to consider our position, our honest 
intentions in coming here, and our wish to do the 
fair and square thing by everybody." 

"It 's easy to talk," replied Buzrow, who had, 
however, laid down his bar. " Dushee could do 
that. But we 've had enough of it. All is, our 
boats must n't be hindered by this dam." 

" The flash-boards are out. You have a free pas- 
sage. And we '11 take 'em out for you any time when 
they happen to be in. What more do you want? 
Whatever your rights may be," Mart continued, 
" you 're not going just the right way to work to se- 
cure them. When you come up here in your boat, 
Vol. X. — 17. 'Copyright, 

and find an opening in the dam ten feet wide to let 
you through, and, instead of taking advantage of 
it, turn out of your course and stop to batter down 
the dam, any man with half a teacupful of 
brains could tell you that you 're laying yourself 
liable to a prosecution." 

" You can prosecute," muttered Buzrow. " The 
law aint all on your side, you '11 find out. Other 
folks have taken counsel on this subject." 



" 1 suppose the law will 
have to decide this thing 
finally," said a young man in 
the first boat, which had floated a little 
way up the river, but now returned to 
the scene of the encounter. " Come 
along, boys ! Don't do anything more." 
'■ I don't intend to do anything more to-day," 
said Buzrow, glad of an excuse to withdraw from 
an undertaking which was becoming formida- 
ble. " I 've done all I set out to. But," he 
added, shaking his fist at the dam. — a fist, by 
the way, which looked as if it might be a good 
copy of the one that had knocked down a cow, — 
"before another Sunday, that will all be ripped 
out ! Jest you remember that ! " 

Mart gave no heed to this menace, but said 
calmly, addressing the young man in the first 
boat, who appeared to be a person of influence : 

by J. T. Trowbridge. All rights reserved. 

2 5 8 



"You will always find the flash-boards up on 
Sunday — a day on which I should think any 
disturbance of this kind might be avoided by 
decent people." 

"I don't belong to the decent sort, I suppose," 
said Buzrow, in a coarse, jeering way. 

'"For the rest," Mart went on, still addressing 
the young man and ignoring Buzrow, " come to us 
on a week day, as one man should go to another 
when there 's a conflict of interest between them, 
and we '11 meet you more than half-way in making 
any necessary arrangements to accommodate both 

" That 's fair," said the young man, who seemed 
to have entered unwillingly into the controversy, 
and to find it very disagreeable. He had good 
manners and a fine face, from which no conduct 
that was not handsome and honorable could well 
be expected. "I 'm as sorry as you can be 
that there 's any trouble about the dam ; but I 'm 
afraid it has gone so far now that the law will 
have to settle it." 

" Very well ; the law let it be," said Mart. 
" It 's a miserable weapon for people of sense and 
right intentions to resort to ; but it 's better than 
crow-bars and bean-poles." 

"I am sorry our fellows have disturbed you 
to-day," said the young man, appearing himself 
very much disturbed. 

" I am sure you are," said Mart, cordially. 
" Whether you could have prevented them in the 
first place, I wont inquire." 

" Perhaps I might," the young man admitted, 
"but I did n't. The truth is, we all feel that we 
have a natural right to go up and down the river 
in our boats, whether the law allows you to dam it 
or not. We were greatly annoyed by Dushee's 
shabby treatment of us last year, and you must 
n't be surprised at any violence of feeling in oppo- 
sition to the dam." 

" I see how the matter stands," replied Mart. 
" You may be sure that, if we had had any 
suspicion of it before we came here, we never 
should have come. But now that we are here, 
does n't it seem as if well-meaning fellows, such 
as you seem to be, and as my brothers and I 
certainly are, — does n't it seem as if we might settle 
our differences without lawyers or crow-bars?" 

" It does seem so," the young man replied. 
" Our club meets to-morrow evening, and I shall 
then lay the subject before them and report what 
you propose." 

" I hope you will not only report it," said 
Mart, " but advocate it, as I am sure you can. A 
word in season from the right person may save a 
world of trouble, to your side as well as ours." 

"That 's a fact," said the young man, his brow 

clearing of its cloud. " I '11 do my best, but I 
can't promise that will be much." 

His boat then led the way up the river, followed 
by the two others, Buzrow still muttering ven- 
geance against the dam as his boat passed through. 

' ' Who is that young fellow in the farther boat — 
the one I talked with ? " Mart then inquired of 
Dick Dushee, who had come down to the Demp- 
ford side of the river to see the fun. 

"That," said Dick, who was evidently disap- 
pointed that the two parties had separated without 
affording him more sport, — " that 's Lew Bartland. 
He 's commodore of the club." 

" I like him ! " said Mart, turning to his brothers. 
"If we 've got the Commodore on our side — and 
I believe we have — we are all right." 

Chapter XII. 


AGAIN, the next morning, the Tinkham boys 
went about their business as if there had been no 
cloud of trouble in their sky. The two oldest set 
to work on the dolls' carriages, for which the 
spring weather was sure to bring a brisk demand. 
The two youngest were happy with their new gar- 
den tools and a quart of peas Mart had given them 
to plant. Rush had also a pleasant task, well suited 
to his hands. To him was assigned the making of 
the rocket-sticks and pin-wheels for Cole & Com- 
pany's fire-works. The stuff had been brought by 
express, and enough got ready so that he could set 
the jig-saw running early in the forenoon. 

Soon after, two young girls drove into the yard, 
in a handsome top-buggy, and looked about 
them with lively curiosity, as the sleek and well- 
groomed horse fell into a slow walk along the grav- 
eled path. 

" I wonder if I had better leave it at the door," 
said one, who held the slack reins. 

"My, Syl Bartland!" said the other; "what 
do you want to leave it there for ? Only women 
folks are in the house, and I want to see some of 
the boys." 

" There are two at work over there in the corner 
of the garden," said Syl. "We might call one of 
them, and give it to him. Would you, Mollie ? " 

" Those little fellows ! No, indeed ! " cried Mol- 
lie. " I want to see the big ones the boys told 
about. There are six or eight of them in all, they 
say, and it must have been splendid when one of 
them was going to knock Milt Buzrow on the head 
with a bean-pole ! " 

" I almost wish he had," said Syl. "I hate that 
great, coarse Buzrow." 

" So do I. But they 've no business to keep a 



dam here for all that. Do you remember? Kate 
Medway and I came up in our boat last summer, 
and when we were going back we could n't pass the 
dam, and that miserable old Dushee kept us an 
hour before he would come and pull up his flash- 
boards. It was awfully mean ! " 

Mollie lowered her voice as she spoke the last 
words, for the horse had turned up to the mill and 

" They are in there at work." Syl Bartland 
whispered, with a mischievous laugh. " Now, if 
you really want to see them, you can take it in to 

"What are you talking about?" giggled the 
other. " I am not going into that old mill, where 
there are half a dozen young men I never saw be- 
fore ! " 

" But you said you wanted to see them. I never 
saw such a girl as you are, Mollie Kent ! Well, hold 
the horse, and I '11 beard the lions in their den." 

The weather was warm, and Rush, in his shirt- 
sleeves, with a paper cap on his head, looking very 
workman-like, was running his jig-saw, when a 
rustling of the shavings on the floor caused him to 
glance around. 

He was surprised to see a young girl coming to- 
ward him ; her rosy face in a cavalier hat, and a 
billet in the gloved hand which she held out to 

" Are you the Tinkham Brothers?" she asked, 
archly, the rosebud of a mouth looking very much 
as if it wanted to blossom into a smile. 

" I am one of them," he answered, awkwardly 
conscious of his paper cap and shirt-sleeves. 

"Here is a note from my brother. He asked 
me to bring it over, so that he might be sure you 
received it before evening." 

He took the billet, and was thanking her with a 
blush, which well became his fresh and pleasant 
face, when she interrupted him with, " Oh, 
there 's no occasion for that ! " tripped out of the 
shop, stepped lightly into the buggy on the bank, 
and, taking the reins from her companion's hand, 
drove away. 

As soon as they were out of hearing, her sup- 
pressed laughter broke forth. 

" It was just fun," she said. " They are the 
tamest lions ever you saw ! I gave it to the one 
that shook the bean-pole over Milt's cranium ; I 
know it was he, from Lew's description." 

"What did he look like?" Mollie inquired, 

"Handsome as a picture ! Clear red-and-white ! 
And didn't he blush beautifully, in his paper cap," 
giggled Syl, " when I gave him the letter ! " 

" Why did n't you make him come out and 
help you into the buggy, so I could see him?" 

Mollie demanded. " Syl Bartland, you 're as 
mean as you can be ! " 

Rush, meanwhile, having seen the surprising 
little vision disappear, opened the unsealed note 
and glanced his eye over it as he carried it to his 

" It 's from the Commodore," he said, handing 
it to Mart — "Lewis Bartland." 

"The C-c-commodore ! " said Lute. "Who 
was that g-g-girl? " 

" His sister, I suppose." 

" By G-g-george, she 's a p-p-pretty one ! Why 
did n't she hand the note to me ? " 

"Because you are not good-looking enough," 
laughed Rush. " What is it all about, Mart ? " 

"Now, this is what I call doing the handsome 
thing," said Mart, with a smile of satisfaction. 
" I knew there was a gentleman in the Commo- 
dore's suit of clothes, and this proves it." 

" Let 's have the p-p-proof ! " said Lute. 

" He writes that a number of boats will be going 
up the river this evening to the new club-house, 
where the members are to meet ; and he suggests 
that it will have a good effect if we give them free 

" Certainly," cried Rush ; " though he need n't 
have taken the trouble to ask it. They will be 
going up with the tide, and returning later in the 
evening, when the flash-boards will be up." 

" But it 's kind in him to make the suggestion," 
said Lute, reading over the letter in his turn. " It 
shows his g-g-good-will." 

" If the Argonauts were all like him," said 
Mart, "there would be nobody for us to have any 
row with. I 'd accommodate their boats, if I had 
to stand at the dam whenever one appeared, and 
carry it over on my shoulders. Though the law is 
with us, they 've got a side, and I respect it." 

" So do I, when they respect our side," replied 
Rush. " But I can't hold my hands in my 
pockets and see them battering the dam with a 
crow-bar, as long as any of Dushee's old bean- 
poles are lying about." 

" I 'm glad you did n't strike the fellow," ob- 
served Mart. 

" So am I," added Lute. " As Father used to 
say, an ounce of p-p-persuasion is worth a p-p-pound 
of opposition." 

The reception of the Commodore's courteous 
note was a cheering incident to the boys in their 
present state of suspense. And it was evident that 
they thought no worse of him for the glimpse they 
had had of his sister. 

With the flood-tide that evening, the boats of 
the Dempford Argonauts passed the mill on their 
way to the new club-house on the lake. The 
Tinkham boys kept out of sight, but they were 




nevertheless near at hand, and on the watch for 
any demonstration against the dam. 

There was loud talk in one of the boats, and the 
Buzrow voice was heard repeating the threat of 
yesterday, that it (the dam, of course) was "a 
nuisance," and had " got to go." But no crow-bar 
was used, and no harm done. 

Then the Tinkhams awaited with some anxiety 
the return of the boats. 

The Argonauts, meanwhile, from down the 
river and about the lake, as well as from more in- 
land parts of the two towns, assembled at the new 
club-room. This comprised the upper story of the 
"odd-looking summer-house," the lower story 
being designed for boats — the lighter ones, like 
the canoes and wherries, to be placed on racks 
and brackets, the heavier ones to be floated under 
the floor and made fast to rods and rings. 

At one end of the room, young Commodore 
Lewis Bartland sat at a table with the secretary of 
the club, while the other members, to the number 
of about thirty, occupied chairs and benches or 
stood leaning against the wall. 

At the end of the building, beyond the table, was 
a balcony overhanging the starlit lake ; and there, 
outside, at the open door and window, were also 
two small groups of Argonauts, enjoying their 
cigars and the night air, and, when they chose, 
listening to the debates. 

Other business having been first transacted, the 
Commodore rose, rapped for silence, and addressed 
the club. He looked very handsome, with the 
light from the lamp on the table before him shin- 
ing full upon his white forehead and finely cut 
features ; and his speech was calm and persuasive. 
He gave a concise history of the mill-dam troubles, 
stating the side of the Argonauts quite to their 
satisfaction. " But," he went on, after the applause 
which greeted that portion of his remarks had 
ceased," we must n't forget that there is another 
side to this controversy. The new mill-owners have 
a side, and we are bound to respect it." 

Dead silence followed this announcement. The 
youthful commodore felt at once that the club was 
no longer with him, and that the position he had 
determined to take would be unpopular. 

But he stood up to it manfully. 

Chapter XIII. 


"We have no longer the party to deal with 
that we had last year. They did not put the dam 
there ; and if they had known anything of its 
history, they would never have bought the mill. 
So they say, and I believe them." 

There was a murmur of assent. 

" Dushee deceived and imposed upon them," 
the speaker continued, "as he so often deceived 
and imposed upon us. So, I say, instead of 
regarding them as enemies, we should look upon 
them as fellow-victims, and do what we can for 
them in their difficulty." 

"That 's so!" cried somebody in a far-off 
corner. There was also a vigorous hand-clapping 
in the same direction, but it was limited to one 
or two persons, and was not taken up by the club. 
Lew Bartland went on, warming more and more. 

"They have come here for the water-power 
which the dam gives them, and have probably 
paid a good deal more for the place than it would 
be worth to anybody if the water-power was 
taken away. As I understand, they are sons 
of a poor widow — mere boys, like the most of 
us here. That ought to enlist our sympathies 
in their behalf. They are struggling to get a 
living for her and for themselves, in a perfectly 
honest, upright, legitimate way. Is n't that some- 
thing for us to consider ? " 

" That was Dushee's claim. We did n't con- 
sider that," said a voice at the window, where 
several heads were looking in from the balcony. 

" But we would — or, at least, we should — have 
considered it," said the Commodore, "if Dushee 
had treated us fairly, as I believe these young 
men are ready to do. He never kept his word 
with us — promising one thing and then doing 
another that suited his convenience better. We 
lost patience with him, and I was as ready as any 
of you to sweep the dam away and then let the 
law settle the matter." 

" That 's what we 'vc got to do now," said the 
voice at the window. 

" Possibly," replied the Commodore, turning in 
that direction and showing his fine profile to the 
benches. "But 'what I insist upon is, that we 
ought first to talk with these young men, see 
what they propose to do, and give them such 
a chance as we should wish anybody to give us, if 
we were in their place." 

As he sat down, a little fellow from one of the 
benches jumped up. I say little fellow, because in 
stature he was hardly more than five feet. But he 
was one of the oldest members of the club, and he 
carried himself as if he had been fully seven feet 

" Mr. Webster Foote," said the Commodore, 
recognizing him. 

Tremendous applause. Mr. Webster Foote, of 
Dempford, — or Web Foote, as the boys called 
him, because he was so fond of the water, — was 
evidently popular, and very well aware of the pleas- 
ing fact. He had been a rival candidate for the 



office of commodore at the time of Lew Bartland's 
election, and had been defeated by only three votes. 
He was not, personally, so well liked as Lew, but he 
had been all along one of the most active and out- 
spoken enemies of the dam, and had gained favor 
by encouraging the prejudice against it. 

It was generally thought that he still aspired to 
Lew's place. Certain it was that, whenever any 
plan of the Commodore's could be opposed with 
any show of reason or hope of success, he was sure 
to lead an opposition. And now the good-natured 
Bartland had laid himself open to attack. 

Mr. Webster Foote tossed off the black hair from 
his forehead, and stood waiting for the applause to 
subside, looking about him with a smile of lofty 

" Straight as a cob ! " whispered a Tammoset 
boy in the far-off corner. 

"So straight he leans over backward," re- 
marked another Tammoset boy in reply. 

"He 's little, but oh, jimminy ! " said a third, 
with an ironical chuckle. 

Some of the Tammoset Argonauts, it may be 
said, were lukewarm on the subject of the dam, 
which they rarely had occasion to pass, and they 
were inclined to make fun of Mr. Web Foote, of 

" Our worthy Commodore," the speaker began 
in high-keyed, oratorical tones of voice, "has 
made a novel suggestion. He has enlightened us 
on one point. I thank him for it." 

This complimentary form of phrase would have 
surprised his followers but for the sarcastic 
emphasis with which the short, sharp sentences 
were uttered. 

" I am sure," he went on, his oratory increasing 
in shrillness and vehemence, " it never would 
have occurred to one of us humble members of 
the club that we owe sympathy and friendship to 
the owners of the dam, instead of opposition. 
We have no right to go up and down the river 
in our boats ; or, if we have, we ought to give it 
away to these honest, upright, dearly beloved 

There was a laugh of approval, while a cloud 
of impatience darkened the Commodore's face. 

" They have come here to carry on a business 
of vast importance. I hear they make dolls' 
carriages, for one thing. The world can't do with- 
out dolls' carriages. The world is suffering for the 
want of dolls' carriages. Europe stretches out 
its arms to America," — Mr. Web Foote tossed 
back his hair and extended his own small 
members to illustrate the attitude of Europe in 
that dramatic particular, — "and beseeches us for 
dolls' carriages. And, of course, only the Tink- 
ham Brothers' dolls', carriages will do." 

Shouts of laughter greeted this part of the 
speech, but no smile broke through the cloud on 
Lew Bartland's face. 

" We have been laboring under a great mistake, 
gentlemen of the club. The river was n't made 
for us common folks. It is not a natural highway. 
No boat has any right upon it; but the fresh 
water comes down, and the tides ebb and flow, 
solely for the benefit of the mill and its precious 

Cries of " Good ! good ! " with a noisy stamping 
of feet on the new floor. 

" Of course, there 's no other place in the world 
where they can get a living. But if we want to 
boat up and down a river, why don't we go to some 
other river ? There are plenty of rivers in the 
world ! What are we dallying around here for ? " 

Amidst the general laughter, even the Commo- 
dore had to smile, Web's mock argument was so 
amusingly absurd. 

"There are five or six boys of them, I hear, 
and a widow. Think of that ! A widow ! There 
are only about forty members of this club; and 
what are forty miserable Argonauts, with their 
sisters and sweethearts, who sometimes go boating 
with them — what are we, with our paltry in- 
terests and pleasures, compared with those five 
or six makers of dolls' carriages and a widow 
thrown in ? Of course, we are of no importance. 
We may as well give up our boats. And, perhaps, 
it would be a handsome thing to offer this boat- 
house, which would then be of no more use to 
us, to the Tinkham Brothers, as a store-house for 
dolls' carriages. How would you like that ?" 

Web Foote tossed back his hair and sat down, 
amidst an uproar of merriment. That having 
subsided a little, all eyes turned upon the Com- 
modore, who was expected to reply. 

He rose slowly to his feet, and said with simple 
dignity : 

" The remarks we have just listened to would 
be highly diverting if this did not happen to be a 
serious subject. I am not aware that I have pro- 
posed anything so very unreasonable. Can't we 
imagine ourselves in the place of those young men, 
and then ask soberly how we would wish to be 
treated ? Would we like to have gentlemen to 
deal with, or a mob ? I don't propose to abandon 
our right to the river, by any means, and the last 
speaker knows as well as anybody that I do not. 
Is the mere question of a compromise so very 
absurd? " 

" Yes, sir! " bellowed the voice at the window 
from which had come the interruptions to the 
Commodore's opening speech. " Yes, sir ! and 
I '11 tell you why ! " 

Thereupon^ in through the window, from the 




balcony, came the shoulders and one leg, — his head 
was in already, — and finally. the whole burly form 
of the speaker, who proved to be no other than 
our valiant acquaintance. Milt Buzrow, of the 
crow-bar — the Buzrow whose father had knocked 
down a cow with his unarmed fist. 

' ' There can't be no compromise ! " He was a 
little careless with his negatives in times of excite- 
ment. " 1 don't care what the mill-owners '11 be 
willing to do, they can't do but one thing to suit 
us. As long as the dam, or any part of the dam, 
remains, it 's in our way, and it 's got to go ! " 

This was uttered with a gesture of the clenched 
fist, — which, as we have before intimated, appeared 
to be a very creditable copy of the cow-smiter's,' — 
and was loudly cheered. 

" Was the river made for everybody, or for only 
one or two, I 'd like to know ? " Buzrow went on, 
advancing toward the middle of the floor. " It 
it 's only for the mill-owners, why then we '11 
throw up our hand, as Web Foote says. But if 
the public has rights there, the public has got to 
stand up for its rights, and I go in for standing up 
for 'em with a good, stiff iron bar." 

This allusion to yesterday's adventure produced 
a lively sensation. 

" I broke the dam, and I '11 break it again ! " 
Buzrow cried in a big voice, with a braggart 

" Look out for bean-poles ! " said one of the 

"I don't care for their bean-poles. Lawyer 
Snow says we 've jest as much right to tear away 
that dam as we would have to break a gate put 
across the highway. I s'pose you know that." 

As the speaker appealed to the Commodore, the 
Commodore quietly replied : 

"I 've heard of his saying so; but I 've no 
doubt there are better lawyers than Snow, who 
would tell the other side exactly the contrary." 

" Then, law or no law," cried Buzrow, " the dam 
has got to go. S'pose they do take up their flash- 
boards for us, or make other arrangements for 
letting our boats through, what a trouble it 's 
going to be, every time we get to the dam, to wait 
till some gate is opened, which very likely we 
should have to open ourselves ; and then we all 
know how it is when water is low. Last summer 
Dushee shut his flash-boards after I had got 
through, going down, and kept back the water so 
my boat got aground and could n't be got off till 
I went and smashed 'em." 

' ' That 's so ! that 's so ! " cried several voices at 

" What I claim is," Buzrow said in conclusion, 
"we've got a right to the whole width of the 
river at all times. If the mill-owners will agree to 

that, all right. It 's the only compromise / will 
make, as long as I own a crow-bar." 

Two or three violent speeches followed on the 
same side. Then the secretary rose. This was 
Charley Kent, brother of Mollie, whom we have 
seen. " I don't think the Commodore's position is 
fully understood," he said, in a modest, concilia- 
tory way, leaning with one hand on the table. 
" He does n't propose to give up everything to 
the mill-owners, as some of the speakers assume. 
But the question is, shall we treat them in a 
gentlemanly way or in a ruffianly way ? Are we 
a club or a mob ? " 

" This is the second time I 've heard that word 
mob!" cried Web Foote, springing to his dimin- 
utive legs, and wildly flinging back the hair from 
his brow. He threw his chest forward and his 
head back, much in the style of a fighting cockerel. 

" When such epithets come from officers of the 
club," — his voice rose to a shriek, — "applied to 
members of the club," — he sprang forward about 
three feet, as if he had been going to strike his 
spurs into somebody, — "I, for one, hurl them 
back with contempt ! " 

He illustrated the hurling with his right arm 
thrust straight out — that is to say, diagonally 
upward — at the said officers, with little fist 
clenched, in comical contrast with that of the 
cow-smiter's burly son. At the same time, his 
left arm, also with little fist clenched, was thrust 
down diagonally behind, as if to balance his 
person — which, by the way, was now fully eight 
feet tall, in his own estimation, if it was an inch. 

"We feel the gentleman's contempt, and are 
withered by it," said the Commodore, once more 
on his feet, and looking calmly over Web Foote's 
head at the back benches, until Web subsided 
into his seat. "Nevertheless, I stand to what I 
have said. Shall we appoint a committee to con- 
fer with the mill-owners, and reserve further action 
on the subject until our next meeting ? That seems 
to me the only fair and honorable thing to do." 

"And leave the dam there meanwhile? No, 
sir ! " roared Milt Buzrow. 

"I want a vote of the club," the Commodore 
insisted. "If, as a club, we are not prepared to 
act honorably in this and every other matter, I 
wish to know it, in order that I may take care of 
my own personal character in time." 

His bearing was so manly, and his quietly earnest 
words carried such weight, that he now had a large 
majority of the Argonauts with him, as was shown 
by the subsequent vote. Even Web Foote, seeing 
how the current of popular opinion was turning, 
stood and was counted in favor of a committee. 

Then Milt Buzrow said, "I move that Web 
Foote be appointed a member of that committee." 

>88 3 



That was not what the Commodore wanted, by 
any means. But the motion being seconded, he 
put it to the vote, and it was carried. 

Then the secretary moved that Commodore Lew 
Bartland be also appointed a member. 

" Gentlemen of the club," said the Commodore, 
hardly trying to conceal his dissatisfaction, " I see 
no use at all in my serving on this committee with 
the member already chosen." 

But as his friends insisted on voting for him, he 
yielded, and was chosen without a dissenting voice. 

In order that both towns might be represented, 
a Tammoset member was then selected, and the 
committee was full. 

After some further business was transacted, the 
meeting broke up harmoniously ; and the cause of 
peace and good order seemed, for the time being, 
to have prevailed. 

f To be continued. ) 

By Palmer Cox. 

One night a cunning brownie band 
Was roaming through a farmer's land, 
And while the rogues went prying round. 
The farmer's mare at rest they found ; 

And peeping through the stable-door, 
They saw the harness that she wore : 
The whip was hanging on the wall, 
Old Mag was grinding in the stall ; 




The sight was tempting to the eye, 
For there the cart was standing nigh 
That Mag around the meadows hauled, 
Or to the town, as business called. 

That mare," said one, "deserves her feed- 
Believe me, she 's no common breed ; 

So plans were laid without delay : 

The mare was dragged from oats and hay, 

The harness from the peg they drew, 

And every one to action flew. 

It was a sight one should behold 

To see them working, young and old ; 

Two wrinkled elves, like leather browned, 

Her grit is good : I've seen her dash 

Up yonder slope without the lash, 

Until her load — a ton of hay — 

Went bouncing in beside the bay. 

That cart," said he, "would hold the crowd — 

We 're neither stuck-up, vain, nor proud. 

In that concern, old Farmer Gill 

Takes all his corn and wheat to mill ; 

It must be strong, though rude and rough ; 

It runs on wheels, and that 's enough." 

Now, brownies seldom idle stand 

When there 's a chance for fun on hand. 

Whose beards descended near the ground, 
Along with youngsters did their best, 
With all the ardor of the rest. 

While some prepared a rein or trace, 

Another slid the bit in place ; 

More buckled bands with all their might, 

Or drew the crupper good and tight. 

When ever>- strap a buckle found, 

And every part was safe and sound, 

Then round the cart the brownies flew — 

The hardest task was yet to do. 

It often puzzles bearded men, 

Though o'er and o'er performed again. 



Some held the shafts to steer them straight, 

More did their best to balance weight, 

While others showed both strength and art 

In backing Mag into the cart. 

At length the heavy job was done, 

And horse and cart moved off as one. 

Across the flat and up the hill 
And through the woods to Warren's mill, 
A lengthy ride, ten miles at least, — 
Without a rest they drove the beast, 
And then were loath enough to rein 
Old Mag around for home again. 

Now down the road the gentle steed 
Was forced to trot at greatest speed. 
A merrier crowd than journey there 
Was never seen at Dublin Fair. 
Some found a seat, while others stood, 
Or hung behind as best they could ; 
While many, strung along, astride, 
Upon the mare enjoyed the ride. 

Nor was the speed, returning, slow : 
The mare was more inclined to go, 
Because the feed of oats and hay 
Unfinished in her manger lay. 
So through the yard she wheeled her load 
As briskly as she took the road. 
No time remained to then undo 
The many straps so tight they drew, 


The night was dark, the lucky elves 
Had all the turnpike to themselves. 
No surly keeper barred the way, 
For use of road demanding pay, 
Nor were they startled by the cry 
Of robbers shouting, " Stand or die ! 

For in the east the reddening sky 
Gave warning that the sun was nigh. 
The halter rope was quickly wound 
About the nearest post they found, 
Then off they scampered, left and right, 
And disappeared at once from sight. — 



[ February, 

When Farmer Gill that morning fair 
Came out and viewed his jaded mare, 
I may not here in verse repeat 
His exclamations all complete. 
He gnashed his teeth, and glared around, 
And struck his fists, and stamped the ground. 
And kicked the dog across the farm, 
Because it failed to give alarm. 
'' I 'd give a stack of hay," he cried, 
" To catch the rogue who stole the ride ! 

I have some neighbors, kind and true, 

Who may be trusted through and through, 

But as an offset there are some 

Whose conscience is both deaf and dumb. 

In all the lot who can it be 

That had the nerve to make so free ? " 

Then mentally he called the roll 

To pick the culprit from the whole, 

But still awry suspicion flew — 

Who stole the ride he never knew. 

By George Addorus. 

It was brand new, that umbrella, and a present 
at that. Its cover was of brown silk, and its 
handle of ivory, ornamented with an owl's head ; 
and you might naturally have expected, just as 
Priscilla did, that it would be a very well-behaved 
and genteel object. 

Who gave it is a secret. It was a secret even 
from Priscilla and Mrs. Prue ; for it came by- 
express, in a neat case of leather, inscribed in 
beautiful gilt letters two inches long with the name 
of the little girl for whom it was intended. So there 
could be no mistake about the matter. 

But who ever heard of an umbrella in a leather 
case ? It was very remarkable, but not the most 
remarkable thing about it, as you will see. 

Priscilla had just politely refused to go to the 
bakery when the expressman arrived. I say po- 
litely, because this little girl was very proper : she 
never screamed ugly words in a loud tone; she 
never said " aint " for " is n't," nor " ketch " for 
" catch," as do some pretty big little girls I know 
of; her answer to her mother had been — nothing 
whatever. And after she had said it, she walked 
quickly away, not caring to prolong a conversation 
in which she might forget her good manners if she 
said more. Then the express arrived. About 
fifteen minutes later she walked into her mother's 
presence, arrayed in a clean white dress and her 
best blue sash, pulling on her gloves. Mrs. Prue 
never knew that a half-hour ago Priscilla had no 
idea of going on her errand. She was a very 
absent-minded, good-natured lady, and never dis- 
turbed as long as her daughter was quite attentive 
to her behavior and showed no temper. 

You and I know there is no use in having 
a fine, new umbrella, nor anything else fine 
and new, if other people can't see and admire it 

too ; and Priscilla, like a well-bred and generous 
little girl, took her present in hand, and started 
off to gratify all her friends and acquaintances by 
the sight of it. She stepped daintily along the 
main street of the town, holding it above her head 
as a sunshade ; her little breast was throbbing with 
pleasure at the glances of evident surprise and 
admiration she saw every passer give her (but of 
which, between you and me, she was more con- 
scious than any one else), when a hoarse, mocking 
voice cried out over her head: " Ha, ha, ha ! Oh, 
my ! what a fine miss ! " 

This insult was too much for any one to bear 
without a flush of anger, but what followed was 
worse, and not to be borne without an indignant 
and haughty look darted straight at the offender. 

" Does it rain to-day, my dear? Does it, does 
it, does IT? Ho, ho, ho! Ha. ha, ha! What 
a sell ! " 

Pris, in spite of herself, did hastily what was 
natural to do, as I said above ; the glance, dread- 
ful as it was, fell harmlessly on bricked walls and 
bowed window-blinds. But that umbrella had its 
own affairs, not quite so harmless, to attend to at 
just that moment. The neat little japanned end, 
so suddenly lowered and righted, nimbly lifted, and 
carried with it the hat of a stout, elderly gentleman 
who was puffing by in great haste. With a be- 
wildered and terrified countenance, he clapped his 
hands to his head and stopped, staring wildly. 

Down the street, at this very moment, came 
jauntily a frolicksome high wind, and as Priscilla's 
grasp, in her consternation and dismay, was un- 
certain, it just picked up, as it went by, the um-. 
brella and the elderly gentleman's hat together, 
and on they went in company, rollicking, rolling, 
jumping, in the best humor imaginable. For a 



moment the elderly gentleman stood holding his 
head, persuaded, no doubt, that that would go 
next ; then, with great determination, he gave 
chase. He made sudden darts into the street, 
stooped cautiously to pick up what was no longer 
under his hand, but, by this time, careering madly 
in the gutter, with little hops and skips, as if it had 
legs, too, and pretty nimble ones at that. Now he 
tried another tactic. By hard running, the elderly 
gentleman got before the hat, the umbrella, and 
the wind, and laid in ambush at the corner. He 
looked so very wise and triumphant, this dear old 
fellow, who had not given one unkind glance to 
Pris, as he set his feet firmly apart, bent a little, 
and held his arms out, ready for a plunge and a 

I dare say he would have caught it had it not 
been for that wicked umbrella. It took the 
opportunity, just as the hat came along, bowling 
smoothly on its rim, to fly above the elderly 
gentleman's head, settle on it, and shut up. It 
is true you could see nothing but his legs, now 
that this big extinguisher topped him, but those 
were very mad legs, as they quivered convulsively 
together, and the hat serenely bowled away on 
the other side. 

And all this time what was poor little Pris 
doing? She could not join in the roar of laughter 
that went up from the street. It was her umbrella 
which had done all the mischief. She had been 
running wildly in pursuit, but how dare she claim 
it now ? She was afraid the elderly gentleman 
would hand her over to M. P. No. 3, — who had 
brought him out of the brown silk flaps with 
a prompt and efficient hand, — and M. P. No. 3 
would consign her to jail forthwith. She stood 
trembling and eying her possession, afraid to go 
away, afraid to stand still, when this blue-coated 
official turned about, with the umbrella in his 

"Is this yours, little girl?" he asked. And 
Priscilla was astonished to hear such a terrible 
person use such ordinary words with such a kind 
voice. Indeed, when he gave it to her, he patted 
her on the head with the very hand that he used 
for collaring thieves and pickpockets, and she 
walked away in such a hurry and tremor that she 
forgot to stop and see whether the elderly gentle- 
man got his hat, or whether he went on chasing it 
to the end of time and the edge of the world. 

Now, such a trial as this could not befall 
Priscilla Prue without raising some searching 
questions and shamefaced answers in her breast. 
She was suddenly conscious that, as she had 
walked along the broad street a while ago, she had 
indulged in many comparisons between herself 
and other little girls : how much prettier she was 

than Jennie Flatface ; how much better behaved 
than Tillie Tomboy ; how much more polite than 
Molly Stuckup ; how much better dressed than 
Theresa Nopurse. She had passed over in her 
mind little gossiping stories about them all, 
thinking, with great satisfaction, no one could say 
such things of her — as if every one in this wide 
world of ours is not at the mercy of the kind or 
unkind judgment of his slightest acquaintance ! 

What humbling, mortifying thoughts crowded 
now on Miss Priscilla's mind I shall not take upon 
myself to state, but one of these, that rose straight 
from out the others, must be written down to 
complete this tale. This mysterious gift which 
she held in her hand had brought her nothing but 
sorrow and shame ; such great misfortunes had 
never happened to her in her life before ; and she 
believed — yes, she believed, as the wise old owl's 
eyes stared at her with a dull grin — as long as it 
staid by her these misfortunes would never cease. 
At least, it would remind her forever of this day's 
shame and bitter thoughts. 

She turned off into a narrow street that by and 
by became a lane, and wandered down to the 
river, which babbled loudly here, but ran slowly 
and silently beyond by the factories. 

"You need n't stare with your awful round eyes 
at me," whispered Pris angrily to the owl's head, 
though she trembled when she said it, lest it 
should open its cross- looking beak and reply, 
" Nothing is going to save you. no, nothing! " 

And saying this, and seeing no one around, she 
threw the umbrella far out on the stream. I am 
sorry to say her little feet, unsteadied by her violent 
action, slipped on the treacherous bank where she 
stood, and slipped and slipped, faster and faster, as 
she clutched at the yielding grass and weeds on her 
way. The cold water was at hand, and a sobbing, 
frightened cry had gone from out her lips, when a 
great arm — it seemed the length of the factory 
chimney to Pris — came out of the tanglewood, 
clutched her shoulder, and drew her up to dry 
land and safety. 

" Why did n't you holler? " asked her preservej, 
a long-limbed youth, whose fishing-rod and basket 
on the ground told plainly what he was about by 
the river. " I 'd have stopped you sooner. I just 
turned my head about a second, after you gave 
that plucky fling, and I did n't know what you 
were up to when your hat went sliding out of 

He might have added that he had considered 
her entire conduct as altogether erratic and mystify- 
ing, for there was a jolly twinkle in his eye, but he 
listened, instead, with great gravity to Priscilla's 
proper if agitated thanks. 

"Why, you need n't thank me," he returned. 




" I could n't see you drown, you know. Hello ! 
vou are not running away ? " for Priscilla was be- 
ginning to edge off with her head down. " There is 
the umbrella yet ; don't you see it sticking in the 
bushes across stream ? just wait a second — there 
is a ford a couple of yards above. I '11 go over and 
rescue your gallant companion." 

So, very kindly — for he was a great, big young 
man of eighteen — encouraging the little girl, who 
he saw was struggling to keep back her tears, he 
sprang through the bushes. Priscilla peered across 
the water : oh, that horrid owl ! She was sure, as it 
stuck its pert head between the green leaves, it 
ogled her with a worse stare than ever. Take 
that dreadful thing back again? Pris turned at the 
thought and fled, and, I dare say, was half-way 
home before the astonished and good-natured 
fellow had made his way back to where he had 
left her. 

Priscilla did not feel very comfortable when she 
saw her mother, but, however vain and foolish she 
might be, she was never untruthful, and told her 
story from beginning to end very faithfully. 

"You naughty, naughty child!" said Mrs. 
Prue, pathetically aghast. " Of all things, to throw 
that elegant present away ! You are so queer, 
Priscilla. If I thought there was the least use, I 'd 

send you back. But you will never have such an- 

" I hope not ! " said Pris. " I hate owls, and it 
was a particelyer awful owl, as wise as Somolon, 
and kept saying ' Vanity of vanities,' like the text, 
in rny head. Did I have a fairy godmother, Mam- 
ma ? " she continued, reflectively. 

" Did you have a fairy godmother ! " cried Mrs. 
Prue, and then she laughed. "Well, well, per- 
haps you did, you funny child." 

."Then," said Pris to herself, "1 believe that 
was an enchanted umbrella." 

And she, therefore, was properly afraid of it. 

The next morning, as, with a heart much light- 
ened, Priscilla came down the stairs, that un- 
impressible expressman solemnly handed in a 
package at Mrs. Prue's front door. He said not a 
word, but immediately departed. 

" Another umbrella ! " cried Pris with a tremble, 
but it was n't. It was n't another — it was the 
same one. And who but the fairy godmother could 
have sent it back, or what mysterious change had 
taken place in its nature so that Miss Pris had 
never a vainglorious thought peeping into her 
mind while that sheltered her head but it suddenly 
shut up and quenched it, is more than Mrs. Prue, 
or Priscilla, or I could ever make out. 


By Clara Erskine Clement. 


After the Italian painters, the Flemish artists 
were next in importance. Perhaps they might as 
well have been called Belgian artists, — for Flan- 
ders was a part of Belgium, — but as the chief 
schools of the early Belgian painters were in the 
Flemish provinces of Belgium, the terms " Flemish 
art" and "Flemish painters" were adopted, and 
the last was applied to Belgian artists even when 
they were not natives of F"landers. 

The chief interest connected with the beginning 
of the Flemish school is in the fact that one of its 
earliest masters introduced the use of oil colors. On 
account of this great advance in the mechanical 
part of painting, there went out from this school an 
influence the benefits of which can not be overesti- 
mated. This influence affected the schools of the 
world, and though painting had reached a high 
point in Italy before the first steps in it were taken 

in Flanders, yet this discovery of the benefit of oil 
colors laid the broadest foundation for the fame 
and greatness of the Venetian and other Italian 
painters who profited by it. 


This artist was the eldest of a family of painters. 
He was born in the small market town of Maaseyck 
about 1366, after which time his family removed to 
Ghent. He was not made a member of the Guild 
of Painters in Ghent until 1412, and we can give 
no satisfactory account of his life previous to that 
event, which occurred when he was forty-six years 

From general facts which have been brought to- 
gether from one source and another, it is believed 
that he attended to the education of his brother 
Jan, his sister Margaret, and his younger brother 



Lambert, all of whom were painters. He devoted 
his best care to Jan, who was twenty years younger 
than himself. The elder brother instructed the 
younger in drawing, painting, and chemistry, for in 
the early days of painting this last study was thought 
to be necessary for an artist who used colors. 

There has been much learned discussion as to 
which of the Van Eycks really introduced the use 

But three works still exist which are attributed 
to Hubert van Eyck. The most important of these, 
and that upon which his fame rests, is a large altar- 
piece, which consisted of twelve separate panels. 
This great work was done for Judocus Vydt, and 
the portraits of himself and his wife make a part of 
the altar-piece. As it was originally arranged, it 
had a center-piece and double folding-dcors on 

WUg^ ] '--■■- 



of colors mixed with oil. The most reasonable 
conclusion is that Hubert used these colors, and 
gave his thought and study to the subject of find- 
ing better tints than had been used before ; but 
it naturally remained for Jan to carry his brother's 
work to greater perfection, and he thus came to 
be generally known as the inventor or discoverer of 
the improved method. 

each side of it ; and when it was open, all the 
twelve panels could be seen. 

This great collection of pictures, which was in- 
tended for the Cathedral of St. Bavon, at Ghent, was 
not finished when Hubert died, in 1426, and was 
completed by Jan, in 1432. It was so much valued 
that it was shown only on festival days, but after 
a time it was divided, and but two central panels 



now remain in St. Bavon ; other -portions of it are 
in the museums of Brussels and Berlin. 

Philip II., of Spain, was anxious to buy this 
altar-piece, and when that could not be done, he 
had a copy made by Michael Coxcien. That 
painter devoted two years to the task, and was 
paid four thousand florins for his work. This copy 
is also in separate galleries, three large figures 
being in the Pinakothek at Munich. 

It seems very strange that so few pictures can be 
said to have been painted by Hubert van Eyck, for 
he lived to old age and must have finished many 
works ; but such troublous times came to Belgium, 
and so many towns were sacked, that vast numbers 
of art treasures were lost and destroyed, and no 
doubt the pictures of Hubert van Eyck perished in 
this way. 

No work of its time was better than the Ghent 
altar-piece : its composition and color were of the 
best then known ; the figures were painted in a 
broad, grand style ; the landscapes were admirable, 
and the whole was finished with the careful delicacy 
of a master in painting. 


This artist brought the discoveries of his brother 
to greater perfection, and became a very famous 
man. It appears that the use of oils had been known 
to painters for a long time, in one way and another, 
and a dark, resinous varnish had been in use. But 
the Van Eycks found a way to purify the varnish and 
make it clear and colorless; they also mixed their 
colors with oil, instead of the gums and other sub- 
stances which had been employed. By these 
means they made their pictures much richer and 
clearer in color than those of other painters. 

Antonello da Messina, an Italian painter, hap- 
pened to see a picture by Jan van Eyck, which 
had been sent to Naples. He immediately deter- 
mined to go to Flanders to try to learn the secret 
of the color used in this painting. He became the 
pupil of Jan van Eyck, and remained near him 
as long as he lived. On his master's death, Anto- 
nello went to Messina, but shortly after settled in 
Venice, where he became very popular as a por- 
trait-painter. The nobility flocked to him for their 
portraits, and everywhere his beautiful color was 
praised. At first, his whole manner showed the 
effect of his association with Jan van Eyck ; but 
soon his Italian nature wrought a change in his 
style of painting, though his color remained the 

It is said that Antonello told his secret to no one 
except Domenico Veneziano, his favorite pupil, 
who went to Florence to live, and thus made the 

fame of the new mode of color known in that city. 
It is also said that Giovanni Bellini went to An- 
tonello in disguise and sat for his portrait, and thus 
had the opportunity to watch his process and learn 
how he prepared his paints. But a far more 
reasonable story is told by the art-writer Lanzi, 
who says that the rulers of Venice gave Antonello 
a pension, in consideration of which he made his 
process known to all artists. 

Thus you see that I had good reason for saying 
that the Van Eycks laid a broad foundation for the 
great fame of those Italians who excelled in color. 
These early Flemish masters first used the oil 
colors. Antonello learned their use from Jan 
van Eyck ; then going to Venice, Antonello influ- 
enced the Bellini, and from them the next step 
brought out the perfect coloring of Giorgione and 
Titian, for the latter was a young man at the 
time of Antonello's death. It is curiously interest- 
ing thus to trace the effect of the study of Hubert 
van Eyck upon an art of which he knew almost 
nothing, and which differed so much from his 

Let us now return to Jan van Eyck. He had 
a more prosperous life than his brother Hubert, for 
he became the favorite of royal patrons, and was 
rapidly advanced in fame and riches. He was not 
only a court artist, but an embassador ; on several 
occasions he executed secret missions to the satis- 
faction of Philip the Good, Duke of Burgundy, in 
whose service he was thus employed. In 1428, his 
patron sent him to Portugal to paint the portrait 
of the Princess Isabella, whom the Duke proposed 
to marry for his third wife. After the portrait was 
completed, the painter made a pleasure trip 
through Portugal and a part of Spain; he visited 
the Alhambra, and received flattering attentions 
wherever he paused in his journey. 

Meantime, the portrait had been sent to Bruges 
for the inspection of the Duke ; the messengers 
returned with an assent to the marriage, which 
took place by proxy, in July, and was followed by 
gayeties and feastings until September, when the 
bride, with her brothers, embarked for Belgium. 
A fearful storm tossed the fourteen vessels of the 
fleet here and there, and finally the Princess was 
landed in England, and did not reach Bruges until 
Christmas Day. Then the marriage was cele- 
brated with great pomp, and Jan van Eyck was 
paid a handsome sum for his services in bringing 
about this happy result. 

Duke Philip was fond of Jan van Eyck, and 
was in the habit of visiting his studio and treating 
him as an equal; he was also very liberal in his 
gifts to the painter. 

The works of Jan van Eyck are to be seen in the 
museums of Europe. His portraits are admirable, 



and his fondness for this kind of painting caused 
him, almost unconsciously, to give the figures in 
his subject-pictures the appearance of portraits. 
He painted well draperies and all sorts of stuffs ; 
he loved to introduce landscapes as the background 
of historical pictures, and he is known to have 
painted one landscape with no other subject intro- 
duced. One picture by Jan van Eyck, which is in 
the National Gallery, London, is said to have been 
bought by the Princess Mary, sister of Charles V., 
and Governess of the Netherlands. She gave to 
the barber who had owned it, as the price of this 
work, a position worth one hundred gulden * a year. 
However, I must tell you that, important as 
these early Flemish pictures are in the history of 
Art, I do not think that they would please your 
taste as well as the works of the Italian masters 
of whom I have already written in this series of 
papers. The Flemish artists were far more realistic 
than the early Italian painters ; they tried to paint 
objects just as they saw them, without throwing 
the grace of beautiful imaginations about their 
subjects; they lacked ideality, which is a necessity 
to an artist, as it is to a poet, and for this reason 
there was a stiffness and hardness in their pictures 
which we do not find in the works of Raphael or 


In time the Flemish painters grew more individ- 
ual, and there was a greater variety in their works. 
Some of them traveled in foreign countries, and 
thus learned to modify their manner in a measure, 
though their nationality was always shown in their 
pictures. At length a powerful artist appeared in 
Quintin Massys, or Matsys, who may be called the 
founder of the Antwerp school of painters; he 
was the greatest Belgian master of his time. 

Quintin was born at Antwerp about 1460, and 
was descended from a family of painters. How- 
ever, in youth he chose the trade of a blacksmith, 
and works in wrought-iron are shown, in Antwerp 
and Louvain, which are said to have been made 
by him. When about twenty years old, he fell in 
love with the young daughter of an artist. He 
asked her father's permission to marry her, but 
was refused on account of his trade, the father 
declaring that the daughter should marry no one 
but a painter. 

Quintin forthwith forsook the anvil, and devoted 
himself to the palette and brush. We can not trace 
all his course, nor tell exactly by what method he 
proceeded ; but it is certain that he became a great 
painter. He died, in 1529, in the Carthusian Con- 
vent at Antwerp, and was buried in the convent 
cemetery. A century later, Cornelius van der Gust 

removed his remains, and reburied them in front 
of the Cathedral. One part of the inscription 
which commemorates his life and work declares 
that "Love converted the Smith into an Apelles." 

Massy's greatest work was an altar-piece in three 
parts, which is now in the Museum of Antwerp. 
His manner of representing sacred subjects shows 
a tender earnestness which recalls the deep religious 
feeling of earlier painters. In his representations 
of the common occurrences of life he was very 
happy : lovers, frightful old women, misers, and 
money-changers grew under his brush with great 
truthfulness. His own portrait and that of his 
second wife are in the LTffizi Gallery at Florence. 
One of his most celebrated pictures is " The 
Miser," at Windsor Castle. The works of Massys 
are seen in all the principal galleries of Europe, 
and those that are well worthy of notice number 
about seventy. 

This painter may be said to have been the last 
artist of the period which preceded him and the 
first of that which followed ; for from his time the 
Antwerp school rapidly grew in importance. Mas- 
sys was followed by the Breughels, who painted 
scenes from every-day life with startling reality ; 
by the Pourbuses, whose portraits, after the lapse 
of three centuries, are still famous ; by Paul Bril 
and his charming landscapes; by many other im- 
portant painters, whose pictures are among the 
art treasures of the world, and, at last, by 


This man, who was a learned scholar and an ac- 
complished diplomat, as well as a great painter, 
was born at Siegen in 1577. His father was one 
of the two principal magistrates of the city of Ant- 
werp, and his mother, whose name was Mary Py- 
peling, belonged to a distinguished family. When 
the artist was born, his family had been forced to 
leave Antwerp on account of a civil war which was 
then raging ; his birthday, the 29th of June, was 
the feast of Saints Peter and Paul, and from this 
circumstance he was christened with the names of 
the two great Apostles. 

Rubens was a scholar from his early days, and 
his talent for drawing soon decided him to be a 
painter. He studied his art first in the school of 
Adam van Noort, where he was thoroughly trained 
in the first rudiments of painting ; later he was 
four years in the studio of Otho Vaenius, whose cul- 
tivated mind and taste were of great advantage to 
the young man. 

After the death of his father, Rubens's mother 
returned to Antwerp, and in 1598 he was admitted 
a member of the Guild of Painters of that city. In 

About forty dollars. 




1600, he went to Italy, and after studying the mas- 
terpieces of Titian, and other Venetian painters, he 
proceeded to Mantua ; here he was appointed 
Gentleman of the Bed-chamber by the Duke Vin- 
cenzio Gonzaga, to whom the Archduke Albert, 
the Governor of the Netherlands, had given him 
letters of recommendation. 

Rubens remained two years at the court of 
Mantua. He then visited Venice a second time, 
and after his return to Mantua executed some pict- 
ures which so pleased the Ouke that he sent him 
to Rome, to make copies of some of the most 
famous works in the Eternal City. 

In 1605, the Ouke of Mantua recalled Rubens 
from Rome, and soon sent him to Spain on an im- 
portant political mission. Here the young artist 
showed himself worthy of the trust reposed in him, 
and proved himself a skillful diplomatist ; his unus- 
ual personal charms predisposed all whom he met 
in his favor. 

After his return from Spain, Rubens went again 
to Rome, where he had a commission to decorate 
the tribune of the Church of Santa Maria, in Vali- 
cella. From Rome he proceeded to Genoa, and 
there found more occupation, for his fame had 
already reached that city. It seems a wonder that 
a Flemish artist should have been thus honored in 
Italy, and even in Rome, where so many grand and 
matchless works of art existed. 

When Rubens had been absent from Antwerp 
seven years, he heard of the illness of his mother and 
hastened home, but too late to find her living. Soon 
after, in 1609, he married Isabella Brant, and built 
himself a house and studio ; it was here that he 
made a large and valuable collection of objects of art 
of various kinds ; a portion of it only was sold after 
his death, at private sale, for more than ,£20,000 
sterling ($100,000). His wife lived but seventeen 
years, and during this period Rubens executed a 
large part of the masterpieces which have made his 
fame world-wide, and which now hold honorable 
places in the finest galleries of Europe. 

During the years spoken of above, Rubens had 
many pupils, and his studio was a hive of industry ; 
in order to keep up his mental training, and not 
allow his constant occupation to lessen his intel- 
lectual vigor, he was accustomed to have some one 
read aloud to him while he painted. Books of 
poetry and history were the most pleasing to his 
taste, and as he could read and speak seven lan- 
guages, he was acquainted with both ancient and 
modern authors. Doubtless these readings, and 
the knowledge of the affairs of the world which he 
gained from them, had much to do with making 
Rubens the accomplished embassador which he 
came to be. 

In 1620, Marie de Medicis sent for Rubens to 

come to her in Paris ; she there commissioned him 
to represent the history of her life in a series of 
twenty-one pictures. The pictures which, with the 
aid of his pupils, he made for the Queen of Henry 
IV. are now in the gallery of the Louvre. They 
may be described as mythological portraiture, since 
many of the faces in them are portraits, while the 
subjects represented are mythological. 

In 1628, Rubens was sent to Spain on a second 
political mission, and while there he executed many 
important works. Upon his return to Flanders he 
was made special embassador to England, with 
the object of effecting a peace between that coun- 
try and his own. This he was successful in ac- 
complishing, and became the friend of Charles I., 
who knighted him, as did also the King of Spain. 

In 1630, Rubens was married to his second wife, 
Helen Fourment, a niece of his first wife, who had 
died four years before. Helen was but sixteen 
years old at the time of her marriage, and the art- 
ist was fifty-three ; she bore him five children, and 
after his death was again married. Rubens made 
so many portraits of both his wives, and so often 
introduced them into his religious and historical 
pictures, that their forms and faces are familiar to 
all the world. 

After his successful mission to England, Rubens 
was treated with great consideration in Flanders, 
Indeed, his position had been all that he could 
desire for many years ; his society was courted by 
scholars, nobles, and sovereigns, even — by beauti- 
ful women and brave men. He lived in luxury, 
and constantly added to his collection of art objects, 
of which we have spoken. He now suffered much 
from gout, and was obliged to confine his labors to 
easel pictures. 

Rubens died in 1640, and was buried in his pri- 
vate chapel in the Church of St. James. This 
chapel contains one of his most famous pictures, 
in which he is represented as St. George, his wives 
being Saints Martha and Magdalen ; on one side 
is his niece, and in the midst his father, as St. 
Jerome, while the figure representing Time is a 
portrait of his grandfather. Rubens painted this 
picture especially for the family chapel. Above 
the altar there is a statue of the Virgin Mary, 
which the painter himself brought from Italy. 

As a painter there seems to be but one adjective 
descriptive of Rubens : magnificent alone expresses 
the effect of his color. His system of leveling his 
subject to his style was unapproachable, though it 
must be confessed that he sometimes condescended 
to be gross or vulgar. In painting, his genius was 
certainly universal. The works ascribed to him 
number about eighteen hundred, and include his- 
torical, scriptural, and mythological subjects, por- 
traits, animals, landscapes, and every-day life. Of 




Vol. X.— 18. 




most holy men, are in reality 



course, in the execution of such a- number of pict- 
ures he must have been aided by his pupils, but 
there is something characteristic of himself in all 
of them. 

In his style he is a strange and delightful com- 
bination of northern and southern art. His man- 
ner of painting and his arrangement of his subject 
are Italian ; his figures, even when they repre- 
sent Christ and th 
German peasants, 
Spanish kings, or 
somebody else |,1 
whom he has seen. 
He mingles in odd 
combination earth- 
ly princes, antique 
mythical person- 
ages, ancient gods, 
and the members 
of the family of 
Marie de Medicis, 
and dresses them 
all in the latest 
fashion of his time, 
and in the most 
becoming colors ! 
And is not this very 
mixture magnifi- 
cently strange ? 

However, if one 
would enjoy to the 
utmost many of the 
works of Rubens, 
he should forget 
the names by which 
they are called, and 
regard each figure 
as a separate por- 
trait. Then his 
power is felt. Above 
all, in the picture 
which hangs above 
his tomb, forget 
that it represents 
any subject and 
look only for the 
portraits of his two 

wives. How charming they are ! the one so brill- 
iant and energetic, the other so shy and thought- 
ful — each magnificent in her own way. But if you 
regard it as an " Adoration of the Virgin," as it is 
called, it will seem as if the spirits of Fra Angelica 
and other holy painters stood around you, helping 
you to remember how the brush that is guided by 
faith and prayer can depict spiritual and holy 
subjects, and aiding you to distinguish between 
the work of Rubens and that of a purer type. 

When one begins to speak of this artist, there is 
much that may be said, but I have suggested his 
chief characteristics and have space for no more. 

His "Descent from the Cross," in the Antwerp 
Cathedral, is considered as his greatest work. The 
Company of Archers gave the order for this picture 
in 161 1, and it was completed and put in its place 
three years later. The masterly composition and 
the elevated expression of the heads, joined to its 

breadth of execu- 
tion and excellence 
of finish, make it 
a wonderful work. 

Perhaps his most 
charming pictures 
are his representa- 
tions of children ; 
it must be that he 
painted them be- 
cause he loved to 
do it. Many peo- 
ple regard his por- 
traits as his best 
works ; certainly 
they are beyond 
praise, and very 
numerous. A por- 
trait of Helen Four- 
ment walking with 
a page, — the fa- 
mous- ''Chapeau 
de Paille," — the 
two sons of Ru- 
bens, and the so- 
called " Four Phi- 
losophers," in the 
Pitti Gallery, are 
among the most 

His landscapes 
were fine, even 
when intended only 
for backgrounds, 
and his representa- 
tions of animals 
were by no means 
less excellent than 
those of many fine artists who devoted all their tal- 
ent and study to those subjects alone. Thus it will 
be seen that it is not too much to say that his genius 
in painting was universal, and when we remember 
li is other attainments and accomplishments, we 
can but admire this great Flemish artist, and feel 
that of him, as of Goldsmith's famous School- 
master, it might be said : 

" And still they gazed, and still the wonder grew 
That one small head could carry all he knew." 


J E R R V 

2 75 

L- f S^ H A 



Oh, you pussy willow ! Pretty little * thing. 
Coming with the sunshine of the early spring ! 
Tell me, tell me, pussy, for I want to know, 
Where it is you come from, how it is you grow? 

Now, my little girlie, if you '11 look at me 
And my little sisters, I am sure you '11 see 
Tiny, tiny houses, out of which we peep 
When we first are waking from our winter's 

This is where we come from. How it is we 

I will try, my girlie, now to let you know : 
As the days grow milder, out we put our heads, 
And we lightly move us in our little beds — 
Find the world so lovely, as we look about, 
That we each day move a little farther out ; 
And when warmer breezes of the spring-time 

Then we little pussies all to catkins grow. 

By Mary Lowe Dickinson. 

" Buy' a paper, plaze ! She is frozen, a'most. 
Here 's Commercial and News, and Mail, 
And here 's the Express and the Averting Post '.' 
And ivery one has a tirrible tale, — 
A shipwrick, — a inurther, — a fire-alarm, — 
Whichiver ye loike ; — have a paper, maim ? 
Thin buy it, plaze, av this bit av a gurrul — 
She's new in the business and all av a whirrul; 
We must lind her a hand," said little Jerry: 
" There's a plinty av thrade at the Fulton Ferry. 

" She 's wakely for nade av the tay and the toast — 
The price uv a paper — plaze, sir, buy a Post? 
Thrue as me name it is Jeremiah, 
There 's a foine report av a dridful fire, — 

And a child that 's lost, — and a smash av a 
train; — 

Indade, sir, the paper 's just groanin' wid pain! 

Spake up, little gurrul, and don't be afraid! 

1 'm schraichin' for two till I start yez in thrade. 
While I yell, you can sell," said little Jerry, 
Screeching for two at Fulton Ferry. 

The night was bleak, and the wind was high, 
And a hurrying crowd went shivering by; 
And some bought papers, and some bought none, 
But the boy's shrill voice rang cheerily on : 
Buy a Post, or a News, or a Mail, as you choose, 
For my arm just aches wid the weight av the 




Express? Not a single one left' for to-night, — 
But buy one av this little gurrul, sir, — all right. 
She 's a reg'lar seller here at the ferry, 
And / rickomind her high," said Jerry. 

In the whirl of the throng there paused a man. 
The bell is ringing — I can not wait; 
Here, girl, a Commercial as quick as you can ! 
The boat is starting — don't make me late!," 
And on through the hurrying crowd he ran, 
The wee girl following close behind, 
After the penny he could not find ; 
While, with a spring through the closing gate, 
After her money bounded Jerry, 
Ragged and panting, at Fulton Ferry. 

One cent from the man in the big fur coat ! 
Give me the change, or I '11 stop the boat." 
Up from the deck a laugh and a cheer. 
It changed to a shuddering cry of fear 
As he bent his head for the fearful spring, 
And then, — like a wild bird on the wing, — 
Over the whirling waters swung, 
Touched the boat with his hands, and clung, 
Gasping and white, to the rail, and cried : 
Where is that mean old man, who tried 

To steal one cent from a girl at the ferry — 
A poor little girl, with no friend but Jerry?" 

Over the side went a hundred hands, 

From a hundred mouths rang forth commands: 

Pull him in!" "Stop the boat!" "Take his 

stock ! " " Let us buy 
All the papers he has!" "Send him home to 

get dry ! " 
No, indade," said the boy — "that 's not w'at 

I meant ; 
I doant want yer money: I want that one cent 
From the man in the warr'm fur coat an' hat, 
Who could shteel a cent from a gurrul like that ! 

Af iver he thries that game agin, 

He 'd betther take me, and not Margery Flynn ! ' 

Then cheer on cheer for little Jerry 

Rang across the Fulton Ferry. 

Long ago, my youthful readers, 
Happened this that I have told ; 
Long ago that sturdy newsboy 
All his daily papers sold. 
And the pluck that dared a ducking 
To set right a weak one's wrong, 
Served him well in every struggle ; 
And his life, both kind and strong, 

Is a blessing and a comfort 

To a world of needy boys 

Who, like him, must work in play-time 

With boot-brushes for their toys. 
But around the Fulton Ferry, 
Still the newsboys talk of Jerry. 


By Frank H. Converse. 

"And what shall I bring you home, Dorry ? " said 
Ned Blair, who, with Clarence Jackson, his ship- 
mate that was to be, was making a good-bye call 
on Doris Lee, their mutual girl-friend and school- 

"Just what /was going to ask," eagerly put in 
Clarence, though, to tell the truth, Ned's question 


had always been the least suspicion of rivalry 
between the two boys, and I think each secretly 
desired the uppermost place in pretty Doris's 
friendship. Both boys were to sail on the follow- 
ing morning, for their initial voyage, in the ship 
" City of New York," Blokstrop, master ; hence the 
farewell call, and the mutual inward disgust of 
each at finding the other present. 


2 77 

Now, Doris, who was a bit imaginative, had been 
reading, for the first time, Coleridge's "Ancient 
Mariner " ; and it suddenly occurred to her that a 
fan made of albatross feathers would be too sweet 
for anything, and charmingly appropriate for the 
hot days, when she might swing in her hammock 
under the veranda, with " Ye Rime of ye Ancient 
Mariner " for light reading. 

I need hardly say that, as she thus expressed 
herself, both boys simultaneously declared their 
intention of doing their utmost that her wish might 
be gratified. 

" I shall surely bring you an albatross's wing, 
Doris," Ned had said at parting. 

" / '11 bring you a pair of albatrosses in a cage," 
enthusiastically exclaimed Clarence, who was not 
quite familiar with natural history. And then Doris 
had said good-bye, with a kindly wish for each. 

Well, at the time when my story really begins, 
the ship was in the latitude of Cape Horn. 
Neither boy had said " albatross " to the other 
since the voyage began; yet each had kept a sharp 
lookout astern, as day after day the good ship 
went speeding southward. " Gonies " there were, 
dusky "mole-mokes," Mother Cary's chickens, 
cape hens, and cape pigeons — most beautiful of 
sea-birds — in screaming abundance; but, as yet, 
the lone albatross for which they so anxiously 
watched was nowhere visible. 

Ned and Clarence, as is customary in the better 
class of American ships, occupied the " boys' 
room " — a little, closet-like den in the after-end of 
the forward house. 

It was the afternoon dog-watch, and Clarence 
lay in his berth, listlessly watching through the 
open door how the western sky was torn into strange 
shreddings of wonderful greens and golds, the 
whole tinged with a dull red glow from the setting 

Suddenly, Ned entered rather abruptly. Throw- 
ing back his chest-lid, he began tossing his sea- 
clothes aside, in evident search of some missing 

" Have you seen anything of my fishing-line, 
Clarence ? " he asked eagerly, after a second hasty 
overhauling — and Clarence knew in a moment 
that fishing-line signified albatross. 

"/have n't got it," he answered hastily, and at 
the same time springing from his berth, Clarence 
made a dive into his own sea-chest, and, fishing- 
line in hand, rushed to the galley for a bit of salt 
pork to use as bait for the beautiful bird which a 
hurried glance showed him was following in the 
ship's wake. 

Further search on Ned's part proved vain. He 
had seen the line in his chest only the day before, 
and felt a vague suspicion that Clarence could, if 

he chose, tell something about its sudden dis- 
appearance. But of this, of course, he had no 
proof, and, rather moodily, Ned returned on deck. 

Clarence, in a high state of excitement, was lean- 
ing over the lee side, at the break of the quarter. 

"I 'vc got him!" he shouted. "Lend me a 
hand, some of you fellows ! " But the sailors — 
with whom Clarence was not a favorite — seemed 
to have no hands to lend, just then. Ned thrust 
his deep in his trousers' pockets, and turned away. 
Two or three others looked grimly on, but offered 
no aid, even when it seemed a little uncertain 
which was pulling the harder — Clarence or his 
captive. But, by catching a turn around a pin as 
he shortened in the line, fathom by fathom > 
Clarence succeeded in drawing the bird nearer 
and nearer. Vainly it struggled and shrieked, 
and beat the water with its powerful white wings; 
its capture seemed certain. 

It was at this moment that Captain Blokstrop, 
having finished his supper, came on deck. One 
comprehensive glance, which took in the ship's 
course, the set of her sails, and the cloud-streaked 
horizon, also took in the uncomfortable situation 
of the albatross. 

Now, Captain Blokstrop, who was one of the old- 
time ship-masters, had a tinge of the sailor super- 
stition which looks upon the wanton destruction 
of a Mother Cary's chicken or an albatross as a 
portent of evil. Furthermore, Clarence was no 
favorite with him, by reason of what the captain 
called his " shifless, so'gering ways," for Clarence 
Jackson had not come to sea with the idea of 
becoming a sailor, but only to " have a good time 
and see life generally," as he expressed it. 

"A fowl at one end and a fool at the other," 
muttered Captain Blokstrop, in unconscious para- 
phrase. Walking softly to the lee rail as he 
spoke, he reached quietly over, and with opened 
knife cut the tautened line just as Clarence was 
bracing himself for a desperate pull ! Well, the 
natural consequence ensued. The bird went one 
way, Clarence another! His head struck the 
deck with a thump, while the soles of his sea- 
boots were turned upward toward the darkening 
sky. The sailors laughed under their breath, Ned 
could not repress a smile, and something like a 
subdued chuckle was heard by the man at the 
wheel to issue from Captain Blokstrop's throat, -as 
he went below to look at the barometer. 

That night, in the middle watch, it began to 
blow. And when it sets out to do anything of the 
kind around Cape Horn, it goes at it in good ear- 
nest. But though a gale, it was directly astern, 
and the "City of New York" was new, her sails 
and rigging strong. So, after the good ship had 
been put under proper canvas for "scudding," 




Captain Blokstrop, in a bright red Havre shirt, 
eruptive with large pearl buttons, stood hanging 
to the weather mizzen-shrouds, nodding his ap- 
proval of the way his ship and things generally 
were going, while the organ peal of the gale thun- 
dered and shrieked through the straining rigging, 
and a lone albatross, with a few yards of line hang- 
ing from his beak, followed on in the ship's wake. 
Now, when the wind is doing its best to make sixty- 
miles an hour, and the sea to run fifty odd feet 
high, there are more comfortable places than the 
main deck of a long, sharp-nosed, narrow-beam 
ship, particularly when she is logging something 
like thirteen knots. 

The "City of New York " was scooping in tons 
upon tons of water, first over one rail, then the 
other, as she swept on over the tempest-tossed sea, 
the surges of which were dimly visible by the glim- 
mer of a waning moon through the drifting scud 
overhead. The forecastle was afloat, the boys' 
room knee-deep in water, while the after-cabin was 
being " bailed out'' by Wan Lung, the Chinese 
steward, who staggered to and fro with a mop and 
bucket, muttering to himself in broken Chinese. 

Four bells rang out through the din of the storm, 
conveying to Ned the cheerful prospect of a two 
hours' lookout in the slings of the fore-yard, for no 
one could live on the top-gallant forecastle. Both 
boys were clinging to the weather pin-rail, and, at 
the summons, Ned attempted to swing himself by 
Clarence, who had not spoken to him since his 
downfall. How it really happened Ned is not 
sure, but, as the ship gave a roll to the leeward, 
Clarence was thrown heavily against him, and a 
great sea, boarding the vessel just under the main- 
yard, swept poor Ned far out, over the rail, into the 
seething water. Providentially, he had, shortly 
before, thrown aside his drenched oil-clothes and 
water-soaked sea-boots as uncomfortable superflu- 
ities. He got his head above water, dimly conscious 
of seeing the ship disappear in a cloud of dark- 
ness, and felt himself flung like a cork to the sum- 
mits of great waves. He had no time to think, — 
fear swallowed up every other sensation, — for lo, 
as he struck out mechanically, something swooped 
down at him like a great white sea wraith ! And 
let me tell you that a bird whose wings measure 
ten feet from tip to tip, whose bill is about six 
inches long, and whose red-rimmed eyes give it 
the appearance of an intoxicated demon of the 
marine species, is not a cheerful sight under the 
unpleasant circumstances in which Ned was placed. 

The albatross struck at the swimming boy with 
clashing beak. Ned involuntarily ducked his head, 
and then, with perhaps a suggestion of the instinct 
leading drowning men to clutch at a straw, grasped 
wildly at the great bird's leg at the same moment. 

Ned has since told me that he thinks he was a 
little crazed from the blows dealt him by the great 
pinions of the struggling bird. He dimly remem- 
bers grappling with it, after that, with a vague 
fancy that somehow he was Christian struggling 
with Apollyon, which changed to a sudden remem- 
brance of a tussle that he once had in extreme 
youth with a vicious old turkey- gobbler ! 

But he clung to the albatross, and when, half an 
hour later, the "City of New York's" life-boat, 
steered by the second mate, reached him, boy and 
bird were pulled on board together, for Ned's arm 
was not only thrown over and about the alba- 
tross's neck, but his fingers were fairly stiffened 
about its windpipe. He knew nothing of the 
awful pull back to the ship, which lay hove to, 
burning a blue light, a mile to the windward — not 
he. Poor Ned lay face down in the boat's bottom, 
insensible, the salt water running from his mouth 
in a small stream. However, the albatross, which 
had undoubtedly saved his life, was more than 
insensible — it was dead ; and when Ned staggered 
rather feebly on deck next morning, if you will 
believe me, Clarence was in the act of cutting off 
one of the wings for his very own ! 

"My line is in his mouth yet," remarked the 
ingenuous youth, with an agreeable smile, "and 
so you see, old fellow, that gives me a sort of claim 
to him, like a ship's iron does to a whale ! " 

" Your line, eh?" replied Ned, quietly; and, to 
Clarence's manifest confusion, Ned composedly 
pointed out to his room-mate a fine white thread 
running through its strands. They had both been 
bought from the same lot, and Ned had said at the 
time that this was the only difference between them. 
It is not unnatural to presume that Clarence had 
abstracted Ned's from his chest and placed it in 
his own, and in his hurry taken the wrong one. 
Indeed, he afterward hinted that it was done only 
" in fun." 

But Ned was not magnanimous enough to share 
the wings with him — and I am not sure that I 
blame him either, under all the circumstances. 
And as they took no other albatross, Miss Doris is 
indebted to Ned for the feather fan which he had 
made from the wings, and which he sent to her 
from Melbourne, together with an account of his 
adventure, cut from the Melbourne Herald. And 
so, when 1 see her with it, I wonder if its cooling 
breath has not in it, not only suggestions of the 
salt sea, but also of the modern as well as the 
ancient mariner ; for her boy friend is advancing 
rapidly in his chosen profession, and will no doubt 
some day be master of as fine a ship as the "City 
of New York. " 

But Clarence has left the sea in disgust. " It 
does n't agree with him," he says. 

i88 3 .] 



By Celia Thaxter. 

He spreads his wings like banners to the breeze, 
He cleaves the air, afloat on pinions wide ; 

Leagues upon leagues, across the lonely seas, 
He sweeps above the vast, uneasy tide. 

For days together through the trackless skies. 
Steadfast, without a quiver of his plumes, 

Without a moment's pause for rest, he flies 
Through dazzling sunshine and through cloudy 

Down the green gulfs he glides, or skims the 

Searching for booty with an eager eye, 
Hovering aloft where the long breakers comb 

O'er wrecks forlorn, that topple helplessly. 

He loves the tempest; he is glad to see 

The roaring gale to heaven the billows toss, 

For strong to battle with the storm is he, 
The mystic bird, the wandering albatross ! 

* " This fine bird is possessed of wondrous powers of wing, sailing along for days together without requiring rest, hardly ever Happing 
its wings, merely swaying itself leisurely from side to side with extended pinions." — Wood's Natural History. 

"How they propel themselves in the air is difficult to understand ; for they scarcely ever flap their wings, but sail gracefully along, sway- 
ing from side to side, sometimes skimming the water so closely that the point of one wing dips into it, then rising up like a boomerang into 
the air, then descending-again and flying with the wind or against it with equal facility." — Rambles of a Naturalist. ( Cuthbcrt Colli7igivood. ) 

2 SO 




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I am half a Dutch boy. Grandfather is all Dutch, 
for he was born away over the sea in Hamburg ; 
and so, though my name is Thomas Jefferson 
Adams, after Papa, I am considerably Dutch, for I 
look just like Grandfather Kayser. He lives with 
us, and I can't bear to think of his ever moving 
back to Hamburg. He makes me all sorts of 
tilings, tells me stories, and takes my part when the 
rest of the folks are down on me. 

One rainy Saturday, Mamma said I must stay in 
the house, because my throat was sore, and as I do 
not take to any quiet work, and she does not like 
noise, I had a lonely time. In the afternoon my 
throat grew worse, and I got bluer and bluer, till 
I suppose I looked very doleful. 

" What is the matter? " said Grandfather, as he 
came in. 

" 1 was thinking," said I, " that if I 'm not well 
by Monday, I shall get behind the rest of the boys, 

and that, if my throat gets much worse, I may 
die," and then I looked very serious. 

"You have an inllooinza." (Grandfather meant 
influenza, but you see he is Dutch.) " By to-mor- 
row you will be much better," he added; "but it 
seems to me, my boy, you are threatened by a 
much worse disease. " 

" What, Grandfather? " said I, so scared I was 
still, and then I saw the look in his eyes that is 
always in them when he is down on me. and I was 

He did not answer, but folded up his newspaper 
and invited me to go up to his room, which is a 
perfectly splendid place, full of books and pictures 
he brought from Hamburg. There is a big carved 
chest, in which he keeps his clothes, that is very 
curious, and a little sofa, as hard as a brick, on 
which he loves to lie. As soon as we got upstairs 
he took down a large, red book, with silver clasps, 



which is full of writing. I do believe Grandfather 
made up everything in it out of his own head — he 
is 'cute enough to do anything. And after he had 
fixed me on that little sofa, he read to me the fol- 
lowing story. Afterward, he let me copy it, word 
for word, out of the red book, because I never 
could have remembered it all as nice and smooth 
as it was written, and because — well, you will find 
out the second reason later. 

Once upon a time, in the land of Somewhere, 
in a great castle, there lived a family by the name of 
Supposing. There was Sir Timothy Supposing, and 
his wife, Lady Supposing, and their only son, Tobias 
Eliakim Supposing. 

The day after Sir Timothy was twenty-one, — his 
birthday was also his wedding-day, — he went to bed, 
and refused ever to get up. " I have contemplated 
this step a long time," he said. " The floors in 
the castle are draughty, and if I go out-of-doors 
I maybe caught in the rain or get my feet wet; 
so that, wherever I may be, I am in constant 
danger of catching cold. Then, too, if I go out 
in the carriage, the horses may run away, or an 
axle may break, and if I go on Jeremiah's back, 
he may plunge or rear or kick, or lie down and 
roll over. I don't care if he is fifteen years old : 
an old horse is up to all sorts of tricks a colt does 
not think of. Life is uncertain enough in bed. 
With oleomargerine in the butter, and glucose in 
the sugar, and willow leaves and copperas in the 
tea, and bad ventilation, and gas from the furnace. 
I am in great danger even here." 

His big bed was provided with all sorts of foot- 
warmers, and clampers to hold the clothes down, 
and every day his valet, January, rubbed Sir 
Timothy with his soft, fat hands, to stimulate his 
circulation and keep his liver from growing torpid. 
As Sir Timothy was very much afraid of being 
poisoned by bad air, and also of catching cold, 
men with all sorts of patent ventilators and fur- 
naces to sell came to the castle every day, the pro- 
cession often reaching as far as the eye could see, 
and Sir Timothy had every one tried, so anxious 
was he to secure one to his mind. 

Lady Supposing was naturally of a happy dis- 
position. Sometimes, when there had been an 
unusual number of patent things to try, she felt 
low-spirited, and thought what if Sir Timothy 
should not find the right sort of heating apparatus 
after all, and what if, with all the pains and care 
we take, he should die right there in his bed, and 
what if something should befall Tobias Eliakim ? 
But a nap dispelled these forebodings, and then 
Lady Supposing would go about the castle singing 
— " as if," said her husband, " she never thought 
that anything might happen." 

Tobias Eliakim was a fine-looking boy, with 
blue eyes and waving brown hair like his mamma. 
He had two tutors, an old one named Socrates 
Ouidquodibus, who taught him Latin, Greek, 
mathematics, and every sort of ology, and a young 
one, named Apollo Bangs, who taught him music 
and painting. But Tobias Eliakim was always say- 
ing to himself while he studied : " What if — oh! 
what if I get to be just like Professor Ouidquodibus, 
and instead of having to put spectacles over my 
poor, tired eyes, as he does, what if I become stone- 
blind from studying so many books? And what if 
a hump grows on my back, as there has upon his ? 
January once told me of a man who died of con- 
sumption brought on by excessive reading. What 
if I should have consumption?" The only way 
the good professor could make him study enough 
to learn anything was by asking him the still more 
terrible question : "What if you grow up a dunce, 
Tobias Eliakim? and you certainly will if you do 
not study." 

Professor Bangs, in giving him some finger 
exercises, unluckily told him that the composer 
Schumann broke one of his third fingers in his 
effort to make it do his will. Tobias Eliakim was 
off the stool in a minute. "I '11 never touch the 
piano again!" he cried. "I should not be sur- 
prised if my fingers were injured now. They fre- 
quently feel as if they were coming off." And no 
amount of coaxing or scolding could make him 
change his mind. 

One day while he was painting, the professor, 
who was inclined to be a philosopher, began giving 
him a lecture on the pigments he was using. 
" Everything in the world, my dear boy, has some 
beneficent qualities. Arsenic, now, which is such 
a virulent poison that it causes the most intense 
suffering if taken into the stomach, furnishes us 
this brilliant green with which I shall touch up 
those beech trees in the foreground of your picture," 
and as he spoke he squeezed some of the color on 
his pallet and set to work. But this ended Tobias 
Eliakim's painting. " I will not handle poisons," 
he said ; " what if I should accidentally swallow 
a tube of that paint ? " And thereafter he would 
study nothing but drawing. 

Besides his tutors he had a dancing-master, and 
a fencing-master, who had also to teach him to 
shoot at a mark, to manage a horse, to swim, to 
skate, and to slide down-hill. 

He did very well with the dancing, but when he 
attempted to fence, he was so afraid that the but- 
tons would come off from the tips of the foils that 
the lessons had to be continued as best they could 
be with wooden swords. The first time he fired a 
gun, the recoil of the weapon nearly knocked him 
down. " What if that gun had shot off backward, — 



f February, 

who knows that it will always shoot off frontward, — 
and if I lose my head, how am I to get another ? " 
he said. " No, Master Middlebury, I shall not use 
that gun again." Sir Timothy regretted his son's 
decision — "Because," he said, "a gentleman's 
education is not complete without a knowledge of 
fire-arms"; but Lady Supposing, who had opposed 
these lessons from the first, was delighted. 

When Tobias Eliakim saw his teacher swim into 
the clear waters of the lake that lay at one side of 
the castle, he was eager to follow him, and ran as 
fast as he could to don his bathing-suit; but when 
Master Middlebury had led him a few steps into 
the water he halted. " What if I should drown ? " 
said he. " You can't with me," laughed his teacher. 
"You might lose hold of me." "But I wont lose 
hold of you," cried vexed Master Middlebury. 
" But you might have the cramp, or an attack of 
heart disease, or paralysis, or something," persisted 
Tobias Eliakim, now thoroughly determined not 
to swim. " Take me back to the shore directly, 
and I will sit down and watch you." 

Sir Timothy was anxious that his son should be 
a good swimmer. " What if, when he grows up, 
the King should make him an admiral, and what 
if, in a storm or a naval engagement, something 
should happen to the flag-ship ? What would 
Tobias Eliakim do then if he could not swim ? " 
he said to Master Middlebury, when giving him 
instructions as to what he wanted him to do. 
The poor teacher knew that Sir Timothy would 
blame him, and, completely out of patience, he 
went splashing into the lake and dived down to 
the bottom of it to cool his anger. He staid so 
long that Tobias Eliakim thought he was- drowned, 
and ran off to the castle to get some one to rescue 
Master Middlebury. 

The cook took a wash-boiler, the chamber-maid 
took the clothes-line, and the men-servants drag- 
ged along one of the brass cannon that stood by 
the front steps. " We '11 shoot it off," said they, 
"and that will fetch him to the surface in a few 
minutes, when we can scoop him in shore by means 
of the wash-boiler and the rope." 

When they reached the lake, they found that the 
cannon was not only empty, but spiked. " I re- 
member now," said one, " Sir Timothy would 
never allow them to be loaded for fear they might 
burst, and after Tobias Eliakim was old enough to 
walk, he happened to think one day that the child 
might find a cannon-ball and some powder some- 
where, and might load a cannon, and undertake 
to fire it off, so he ordered that they should be 

Being kind-hearted men, they ran back to the 
castle in the hope of finding a cannon they could 
use, while the cook and the chamber-maid tied the 

clothes-line to the wash-boiler, so as to be all ready. 
But they found the cannon were all spiked, and 
were sadly returning to the lake, when who should 
they see but Master Middlebury, dressed in plaid 
clothes and wearing a long, red neck-tie, cantering 
up the drive-way on old Jeremiah. 

Sir Timothy was desirous that Tobias Eliakim 
should be an expert horseman. " If there should 
be a war when he grows up," he said, "the King 
would undoubtedly want him to command an army, 
and there would be times when he would have to 
ride ; but as there is no telling what a horse may 
do, in giving my son lessons, I want you to always 
ride the horse with him, and hold the reins, so as 
to be near in case of accident." 

Tobias Eliakim at first rode in front of Master 
Middlebury, but one day Jeremiah stumbled. 
" What if this horse should take a notion to kick 
his hind legs straight up?" said Tobias. " I should, 
no doubt, pitch over his head and break my 
neck." After that he rode behind, till one day, 
when they were going up a small hill, he noticed 
that under some circumstances he could slide off 
over the horse's tail only too easily, and then he 
would not ride at all. 

[Note by me, T. J. A. " I think Tobias Eliakim 
was a perfect baby. I have been on our horse, Black 
Hawk, bare-back, and he rares around like a wild- 
cat, sometimes."] 

In the winter, the lake in which Master Middle- 
bury tried to teach Tobias Eliakim to swim was 
covered with firm, blue ice, which made first-rate 
skating, and at the back of the castle was a long 
hill, just the place to slide. 

Tobias Eliakim had a handsome sled, the gift 
of his maternal grandfather, and one New Year's 
day, when the hill was white with snow, on which 
glittered a hard crust, Master Middlebury thought 
he would give his pupil a lesson in coasting. 

Tobias Eliakim put on his fur-lined coat, his 
fur-lined boots, his fur cap with ear-lappits, his fur 
mittens, and his red muffler, which went six times 
about his neck. As for trousers — well, he had on 
three pairs. "Really, Master Middlebury, I 'm going 
to catch cold." he said, when they had reached the 
hill. " I feel very creepy in my back." 

" Nonsense ! " cried his teacher. " Hop on that 
sled, and I will have you warm in two minutes." 
Tobias Eliakim obeyed, and Master Middlebury 
had stretched out one of his long legs to steer, 

when Tobias Eliakim cried, " What if " But 

the sled was already darting down the hill, swift as 
an arrow flashing through the air. 

" Never," he gasped when they stopped, — "never 
will I get on that dreadful thing again ! I might 
have been dashed in pieces if you had failed to 


= 83 

steer straight, or if we had struck something." 
Then he did not know how to get up the hill, as 
he did not dare to walk up, nor to sit on the sled 
and let his teacher drag him up, and he was quite 
sure he would freeze to death if Master Middle- 
bury left him to obtain help. So there was no 
alternative for Master Middlebury but to take the 
big fellow on his back and carry him up the hill 
as best he could. 

The skating lessons failed, for when Tobias 
Eliakim felt his feet flying out from under him, he 
almost fainted in his teacher's arms. But, as he 
liked to see his teacher skate, his mamma had a 
small glass house built by the lake, and in it. 
wrapped in furs, with his feet on the stove-hearth, 
he watched Master, Middlebury skate by the hour. 

[Note by me, T. J. A. "This is the worst thing 
I ever heard of any boy. It does seem too tough 
to believe."] 

Once the teachers complained to Lady Suppos- 
ing. They said they felt that their efforts were 
almost thrown away, their pupil progressed so 
slowly. Lady Supposing was very much dis- 
tressed, and sent for the family doctor. 

As soon as he received the message, the doctor 
packed his saddle-bag* full of his biggest pills 
and powders, which he kept prepared for his 
titled customers, put up his blisters and lancets, 
clambered into his chaise, and drove off to the 
castle without delay. 

He examined Tobias Eliakim thoroughly, and 
asked him and his mother and teachers questions 
for two hours, and then gravely shook his head. 
" My dear madam," he said, " your son is suffer- 
ing from one of the gravest maladies known to 
science, and one quite beyond the reach of medi- 
cine. All I can tell you about it is that it is 
known to the profession as ' Congenital Whatif ' : " 
and putting up his medicines and blisters and 
lancets, the doctor drove away. 

"And what is this dreadful and incurable dis- 
ease ?" cried poor Lady Supposing; but though 
Professor Ouidquodibus looked in all of his diction- 
aries, and studied at it with all his might, even he 
could not tell her. ''1 guess, madam." he said, 
moved by her distress and chagrined at his failure, 
— " I guess it is an affection of the mind." 

Life in the castle went on very much as I have 
described, till Tobias Eliakim was sixteen years 
old. Sir Timothy continued to try all sorts of 
patent ventilators and furnaces, and at last a man 
came all the way from the shore of the straits of 

Sunda, and showed him a model which he thought 
so perfect that he ordered a furnace and ventilator 
like it to be put in the castle as soon as possible. 
The first night it was used, the north wind was 
blowing at a fearful rate, and the fire in the new 
furnace burned so fiercely that all the great heat- 
pipes grew so hot, that they set on fire the wood- 
work of the partitions they traversed. The hall into 
which the family rooms opened connected with 
the castle by one small door, Sir Timothy having 
ordered the rest of the doors to be walled up. 
And this small door was always closed at night, 
and locked by six patent locks, lest the servants, 
or somebody, or something, should attack the 
family in the night. All the windows and doors 
in the family rooms were, for the same reason, 
fastened by patent locks, so, though the servants 
tried hard to save them, the poor Supposing family 
perished miserably in the flames. 

Grandfather's story ends here, but when he 
read it to me, I asked him if that was all of the 
family. " Oh, no," said he. " It is a large family, 
having kinsfolk in all parts of the world. A 
second cousin succeeded to Sir Timothy's estate 
and rebuilt the castle." 

" Is the story true, Grandfather?" said I, very 

•' Yes, my boy," said Grandfather, in a queer, 
solemn tone. 

I lay on that hard sofa a few. minutes thinking, 
for you see I had my own notion of the way 
Grandfather used that word true, and why he 
thought a story about a boy that had the " what- 
if "would be good for me to hear. And after a 
little I said, " Grandfather, if I '11 be very very 
good till my next birthday, and not catch any 
incurable disease, will you let me copy that 
story into my diary ? " 

Grandfather dreads to have me take any of his 
things where I use ink — 1 am so apt to spill it; 
but he said, "yes." like the dear old Grandfather 
that he is. 

I will not say how good I was, but my birthday 
has passed and here is the story, and if you pub- 
lish it, as I hope you will, maybe you 'd better 
leave out that note about Black Hawk, which is 
confidential to you. You see I had been forbidden 
to enter the stable, and if he knew I had tried 
to ride that vicious beast, Grandfather would be 
down on me the worst way. Besides, I did it a 
good while ago. I am thirteen — going on fourteen 
since my last birthday. 




By Frank R. Stockton. 


Chapter X. 

A FEW days after the arrival of Louis and Jasto 
at the castle of Barran, the Countess found it nec- 
essary to send to Viteau for some clothing and other 
things which were needed by herself and her ladies, 
for they had brought very little with them in their 
hasty flight from the chateau. 

A trusty squire — not Bernard, for he would not 
leave his mistress for so long a time as a day and 
night — was sent, with a small, but well-armed body 
of men, to convey to the castle the property desired 
by the Countess, and to give some orders to the 
seneschal in charge. When the party reached the 
chateau, early in the evening, the. squire was greatly 
surprised to find that he could not enter. The gates 
were all closed and barred securely, and no answer 
came to his calls and shouts to the inmates. 

* Copyright, 1SS2, 

At length, a small window in the principal gate 
was opened, and a man's head, wearing a helmet 
with the visor down, appeared in the square aper- 

" Which of the varlets that we left here are you ? " 
cried the angry squire. "And what are you doing 
with the armor of the Countess on your rascally 
head ? Did you not know me when I called to you, 
and when are you going to open this gate for us ?" 

" I am not any man's varlet," said the person in 
the helmet, " and you did not leave me here. I 
wear this helmet because I thought that some of 
your impatient men might thrust at me with a spear, 
or shoot an arrow at me when I should show my 
head. I did not know you when you called, for I 
never heard your voice before, and I am not going to 
open the gate for you at all." 

The squire sat upon his horse, utterly astounded 

by F. R Stockton. 



at this speech, while his men gathered around him, 
wondering what strange thing they next would 

" Who, then, are you?" cried the squire, when 
he had found his voice, " and what are you doing 
here? " 

" I have no objection," said the other, " to make 
the acquaintance of any man who wants to know 
me, and to tell him what I do, if it be, in any way, 
his business. I am Michol, the captain of the 
good and true band of cotcreau.x who for some 
time past have lived in this forest, near by ; and 
what I am doing here is this : I am dwelling in this 
goodly chateau, in peace and comfort, with my 

The squire turned and looked at his followers. 

" What think you," he said, " does all this 
mean ? Is this a man gone crazed ? " 

" Not so," said the man with the helmet ; " not 
so, my good fellow. I may have done crazy deeds 
in by-gone days, but this is the most sane thing I 
ever did in all my life. If you should care to hear 
the whole story, straight and true, — and I should like 
much to tell it to you, that you may take it to your 
mistress, — come closer and listen." 

The squire, anxious enough to hear, rode close 
to the gate ; the men crowded near him, and Michol, 
for it was really the captain of the cotcreau.x, told 
his story. 

" I am going to make this tale a short one," he 
said, "so that you can remember it, and tell it 
clearly, all of you. When the boy, son of the 
Countess of Viteau, was stolen from us " 

" Stolen !" ejaculated the squire. 

•' Yes," said the other, " that is the word. We 
captured the youngster fairly on the road, and held 
him for fitting and suitable ransom ; and before we 
had opportunity to acquaint his friends with his 
whereabouts, and with the sum demanded for him, 
he was basely stolen by a traitor of our company, 
and carried away from us, thus cheating us of what 
was our fair and just reward." 

"Reward!" exclaimed the squire. "Reward 
for what ? " 

" For treating him well and not killing him," 
said Michol, coolly. " When I found out the base 
deed that had been done to us," he continued, " I 
gathered all my men, together with another band 
of brave fellows, who gladly joined us, and I came 
boldly here to demand the ransom for the boy, and 
the body of the wretched villain who stole him away. 
And when I found no boy, and no traitor, and no 
Countess, and no one in the whole chateau but an 
old man and some stupid varlets, I blessed my hap- 
py stars, and took possession of the whole domain. 

* Such was the lawlessness of the times, when people had to rely 
of this chateau would probably meet with no immediate punishment, u 

And this I shall hold, occupy, and defend, un- 
til the Countess, its former mistress, shall send to 
me one hundred silver marks, together with the 
person of the traitor Jasto. When these shall have 
been fairly delivered to me, I shall surrender the 
chateau, and honorably depart, with all my men." 

" You need expect nothing of that kind," cried 
the squire. "Count de Barran and the good 
knights with him, when they hear this story, will 
come down upon you and drive you out with all 
your men ; and never a piece of money, gold or 
silver, will you gain by this deed — unless, indeed, 
it shall be such as you shall find here." 

" I shall have my money," replied Michol ; "but 
until I hear that my just demands are denied, 1 
shall break no bars or locks to look for it. My men 
and I will live merrily on the good stores of the 
Countess ; but while we hold this place as warranty 
for her son's ransom, we shall not sack or pillage. 
But if your lord and his knights should come to 
drive me out, they would find more good soldiers 
here than they can bring, for in times of peace we 
are strong, and the lords of the land are weak, un- 
less, indeed, they keep retainers and men-at-arms 
for mere show and ostentation. My men are well 
armed, too, for the Count of Viteau kept his armory 
well furnished, as became a valiant knight and a 
leader of fighting men. So, therefore, if Barran 
shall come to give us foul blows, instead of fair 
words and just deeds, he will get blow for blow, 
and harder blows, methinks, than he can strike ; 
and if it should be, by strange fortune, that he drive 
us out, he would drive us only from the blazing 
ruins of this chateau.* All this I tell you, my good 
squire, that you may tell it to Barran and the 
Countess. Think you you will remember it ? " 

" Indeed will I," said the squire. " Such words 
can not easily be forgotten. But then 1 truly 
think " 

" No more of that ! " interrupted Michol. " I 
do not care what you think. Hear, remember, and 
tell. That is enough for you in this matter. And, 
now, what brought you here? You did not come to 
bring word, good or bad, to me ? " 

" Indeed I did not," said the other, " for I knew 
not you were here. I came, at the command of 
the Countess of Viteau, to get for her certain gar- 
ments and needful goods belonging to herself and 
ladies, which she could not, with convenience, take 
with her to the castle, but which, I suppose, if 
your tale be true, I shall go back without." 

" Not so," said Michol. " I war not on fair 
ladies, until they themselves declare the war. You 
shall come in, and take away what your lady needs. 
That is, if you fear not to enter alone." 

on themselves for protection and defense, that a deed like the taking 
nless it were indicted by the injured owner or his friends. 




These words made the squire turn pale. He was 
afraid to trust himself, alone, inside the walls of 
the chateau court-yard, but he was ashamed to own 
it — ashamed that his own men should see his fear, 
or that Michol should see it. And so, out of very 
cowardice and fear of mockery, he did a thing 
which was exceedingly brave, and entered by the 
wicket in the gate, which Michol opened for him. 

Inside the court and in the chateau, the squire 
saw, as Michol was very glad to have him see, hun- 
dreds of cotereaux, well armed, and in a good 
state of discipline, and he felt sure, at last, that the 
tale he had been told was true. 

The articles he had been sent for were all deliv- 
ered to him, and properly packed by Michol's 
men for conveyance on the baggage-horses that 
had been brought for the purpose. Then the goods 
were carried out, and the squire was allowed to 
depart, without hurt or hinderance. 

Provisions were sent outside the gates for the 
squire and his men and horses, and that night 
they bivouacked by the roadside. 

The next morning they rode back to Barran's 
castle, and the squire delivered to the Countess 
the property he had been sent for, and told the 
wonderful tale that the captain of the cotereaux 
had instructed him to tell. 

Chapter XI. 

The news of the occupation of Viteau by a band 
of robbers occasioned, as well might be supposed, 
the greatest astonishment at the castle of Barran. 
At first, every one, from the lord of the castle to 
the lowest varlet, was loud in favor of an imme- 
diate march upon the scoundrels, with all the 
force that could be gathered together on the 
domain. But after Barran had held a consultation 
with the Countess, Hugo de Lannes, and the very 
sensible and prudent Bernard, he determined 
not to be too hasty in this important matter. 
If the story of the squire who had been sent to 
Viteau was true. — and there was no reason to 
doubt it, — it would require every fighting man 
on the estates of the Count de Barran to make 
up a force sufficiently strong to compel the 
cotereaux to leave the chateau ; and if this force 
should not be large enough to completely 
surround and invest the place, the captain of the 
robbers might make good his threat of burning 
the chateau and retreating to the forest, which 
he could probably reach in safety, if the retreat 
should be made in the night. 

But, even if the Count had been able to raise 
men enough to make a successful attack upon the 
cotereaux at Viteau, he did not wish, at this time, 

to strip his castle of all its defenders. If it should 
be concluded that the Countess should endeavor 
to escape to England, a tolerably strong party 
might be necessary to conduct her to the coast; 
and if the officers of the Inquisition should appear 
at his gates, he would like to be there with enough 
men to compel at least parley and delay. 

It would, also, be difficult to hold the chateau, 
after it should be taken, during this serious 
quarrel with the cotereaux. , If the lady of Viteau 
had been at home, she might have summoned 
many of her vassals to her aid, but it was not 
to be supposed that these people would willingly 
risk their lives, and expose their families to the 
vengeance of the robbers, to defend a dwelling 
which its owner had deserted. 

It was, therefore, determined not to attempt, 
at present, to disturb the cotereaux at Viteau, 
who, as long as their demand for a ransom for 
young Louis was not positively denied, would 
probably refrain from doing any serious injury 
to the property. When the Countess should 
be in safety, a force could be raised from some 
of the estates, and from villages in the surrounding 
country, to thoroughly defeat the cotereaux and 
to break up their band. Suitable arrangements 
then could be made to hold and defend the 
chateau until the Countess or her heirs should 
come back to take possession. 

What was to be done for the unfortunate 
mother of Raymond and Louis, now became again 
the great question. Flight to England, which, 
though a Catholic country, was not under the 
power of the Inquisition, as were France and 
some of the neighboring countries, would have 
been immediately determined upon, had it not 
been for the great unwillingness of the Countess 
to consent to separate herself from her sons. 

If she should leave France and take her chil